


Fidelity

by ravenstagintheforest



Category: Hannibal (TV), Hannibal Lecter Series - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Sex, Dark Will Graham, Demisexuality, Drunken Confessions, F/M, Hannibal Lecter Loves Will Graham, Infidelity, Jealousy, M/M, Mental Instability, Oral Sex, Pansexual Character, Past Infidelity, Possessive Hannibal Lecter, Post-Episode: s03e13 The Wrath of the Lamb, Recreational Drug Use, Rough Sex, Sexual Tension, Sexuality Crisis, Slow Burn, Smut, Vaginal Sex, hannibal lecter has no morals, they switch
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-11
Updated: 2020-10-10
Packaged: 2021-03-04 03:41:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 29,663
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24636976
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ravenstagintheforest/pseuds/ravenstagintheforest
Summary: Hannibal Lecter doesn't "date." He has affairs.Will doesn't quite know what to do with this information.
Relationships: Alana Bloom/Hannibal Lecter, Bedelia Du Maurier/Hannibal Lecter, Chiyoh & Hannibal Lecter, Chiyoh & Will Graham, Hannibal Lecter/Lady Murasaki, Hannibal Lecter/Original Female Character(s), Hannibal Lecter/Original Male Character(s), Molly Graham/Will Graham, Will Graham & Hannibal Lecter, Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 200
Kudos: 349





	1. Chapter 1

There are two empty bottles of Merlot on the coffee table. This, in itself, is a rare occurrence. More than one bottle has never been consumed in an evening, and the coffee table has never been touched by a wine glass.

“Hannibal, you can’t be serious.” 

Hannibal meets Will’s disbelief with a reptilian blink. 

“What do you mean you’ve never dated anyone? You dated Alana!” 

“I don’t believe my relationship with Alana could ever have been classified as “dating,” Hannibal responds evenly, sipping from his glass and reclining against his corner of the couch. 

Will resents the fact that the firelight makes Hannibal’s eyes glimmer. He also resents the fact that Hannibal does not seem to be feeling the effects of the wine. 

“Well, what would you call it?” Will asks, somewhat sourly. 

The hurt from Hannibal’s dalliance with Alana has never truly gone away. It lurks in the shadows of their past and aches like a green bruise. 

“Sex.” 

Hannibal punctuates the “x” with a slight hiss, as though he is lowering himself into a too-hot bath. Will feels, not for the first time in the two months that they have lived together, an ache in his balls. He shifts his crossed leg further up his thigh, to hide the embarrassing beginnings of an erection. His socked-foot brushes against Hannibal’s knee and it feels nice. He decides to leave it there, for the time being. 

“She really cared about you,” he says, looking down into his glass. 

“And I, her” Hannibal responds. 

Will barks a harsh laugh into the stillness of the room. 

“Is that so hard to believe, Will?” Hannibal’s eyes are shining again in the light. 

“I don’t think you’re capable of caring about anyone but yourself,” Will says. 

Hannibal shifts, a sign that he’s uncomfortable. Will wouldn’t have been able to identify that, two months ago. But, two months ago, Will would never have imagined a world where he and Hannibal sat drunk in front of a fire and talked about sex. 

“I would not have offered her the chance at freedom if I did not care for her in some capacity,” Hannibal muses. 

It seems to Will as though Hannibal has not thought much about his feelings for Alana. 

“Do you still feel that way about her?” He asks, trying to seem cavalier. 

“I will always respect Alana. Even more so, now that she has truly blossomed into the self-assured woman I knew she had hidden away. But, you are no stranger to her beauty. Tell me, Will, do you still think about that kiss?” 

Hannibal’s knee pushes against Will’s toe. He tries to make the shift in the position look casual, but Will knows it’s another manipulation. Two can play that game. He pushes back.

“Quid pro quo, eh?” He smirks. 

“If you like,” Hannibal responds. 

“There were a few lonely nights before I met Molly, where I thought about her. Thought about what we could be like.” 

“What did you envision, in the darkness of your boat on the sea?” Hannibal probes, tilting his head. 

“Quid pro quo,” Will deflects. 

Hannibal grants Will a peek at a true smile. It makes him look older, for some reason. The delicate skin around his eyes creases, like soft tissue paper. The smile, combined with the wine and the ache in his balls, makes Will feel bold. 

He stretches his foot into Hannibal’s lap, resting it in the crease between his thighs. He can feel the warmth of his groin a mere half-inch away. Hannibal rests his hand on Will’s foot as if it were his own. The headiness of the evening is giving Will the same thrill he feels when a fish nibbles on his lure. 

“What was she like in bed?” Falls out of his mouth before he can shove it back in. 

Hannibal huffs, amused, and looks down to where his large, aged hand is curled around Will’s foot. Will notices that his knuckles make raised white peaks of scar tissue in the landscape of his skin. Then Will has a very hard time noticing anything when Hannibal begins to grind his thumb into the ditch of Will’s sole. 

“Surprisingly vanilla,” Hannibal says, finding a knot in Will’s abductor hallucis muscle and viciously grinding his finger into it. Will’s groan is caught on the precipice of pain and pleasure. 

“She quite liked to have her pussy eaten, if I remember,” Hannibal muses as if he were talking about the weather. 

Will feels his jaw hit the sofa at the sinful sound of Hannibal’s accent wrapping around  _ that  _ word. 

Hannibal laughs at Will’s expression and pulls his other foot into his lap while he says, 

“Come now, Will, surely you did that for your wife? You don’t strike me as a selfish lover.” 

“Is that seriously your next question?” 

Hannibal nods an affirmative while studiously looking at Will’s feet. 

Will gulps, sure that Hannibal can probably make out the outline of his stiff cock, pushed against his left thigh, and trying its best to rise. His balls are throbbing- he can’t think of the last time he came. He’s not sure what this game is that they’re playing, but he can feel that it’s dangerous. He grasps his wine glass and drains its contents, hoping that he’s drunk enough that he’ll forget all this in the morning. 

“Well, of course!” He says, only a bit defensively. 

For some reason, he doesn’t want Hannibal to think of him as a bad lover. Although bringing up Molly makes Will feel a pit of guilt twist deep in his abdomen. He glances at Hannibal for reassurance and finds the face of the devil looking back. He knows that Hannibal will  _ not  _ be dropping this topic. His mouth is curled into a wicked grin, his hands are still grasping Will’s feet, softly rubbing between his toes. 

“Tell me, Will, how many times could you make your wife come?” 

“Why do you want to know?” 

“I want to know everything about you.” 

Will knows that his lure is deep in the fish’s belly; for the first time since the Freddie Lounds incident, he feels in control. Somewhere deep inside, the old Will Graham, the good Will Graham, is wheezing a death rattle. That Will Graham, who watched Hannibal fix Abigail just to break her apart, who watched Hannibal sliver Beverly Katz’s beautiful brain, whose child was inadvertently killed through Hanibal's games with the Verger siblings…  _ that  _ Will Graham wants to hurt Hannibal more than anything.  _ That  _ Will Graham wants to smash Hannibal’s teacup, sweep up the pieces, and grind them in a mortar and pestle until there’s nothing left but ashes. It’s  _ that  _ Will Graham that yanks his feet out of Hannibal’s lap and says, 

“I thought I felt compassion for you, but now I realize that it’s pity. My marriage was the best thing to ever happen to me. And I know now that you will never, ever, know what it feels like to be loved for who you are.” 

Hannibal sits, placid as always, but his hands twitch. Will can see that his blow has landed. Satisfied that Hannibal will not sleep easily, he rises and puts out the fire. 

That night, as Will clenches his leaking cock, he shoves the sole of his foot against the bedpost to feel the phantom weight of Hannibal’s thumb. 


	2. Chapter 2

Will awakes with woozy eyes and a pounding head. He turns over with a soft groan, realizing that the soft grey light indicates he’s awake before the sun. Since the fall, Will has always woken up after sunrise. He scratches his cheek with his chewed nails, trying to will himself back into unconsciousness. Unfortunately, his heartburn and headache say otherwise. After fifteen minutes or so, Will resigns himself to get up. 

After a scalding-hot shower, he plods to the kitchen to find it empty. This is the first time he’s gotten downstairs before Hannibal. The first time he’s risen without the smell of coffee in the air. Without a warm plate of food for breakfast and a conversation about his dreams. Without the soft comfort of another human being existing a few feet away. The emptiness feels like a punishment. 

He is tempted to walk out the back door, to wander the beach and its dunes. To rub the rough saltwater into his wounds and punish himself, as Hannibal has punished him. He could simply walk out, roam until he finds peace. It’s what Hannibal would expect him to do- which is why he doesn’t do it. 

Instead, Will begins to brew the coffee. He’s never worked a Moka Pot before, but it seems simple enough. Grind the beans. Boil the water. The filter goes next. Fit the bottom to the burner. Wait for a bubbling hiss. 

Coffee sorted, Will gazes out the window over the kitchen sink, watching the sun’s first rays lighten the grey dawn. He wonders if Hannibal aches when he sees this view. If the privilege of a window after three years of concrete grinds the turning of his cogs to a stop in the morning. 

Will turns his back on the view and decides to make breakfast. 

After scrambling eggs and frying up some sausage, Will decides to seek out Hannibal. Their conversation last night felt frighteningly close to their old therapy sessions. But for the first time, it felt as though Will were the psychiatrist and Hannibal his patient. Will, the mongoose, and Hannibal the cobra. He wants to feel the heady rush of power again. He wants to shift into Hannibal’s skin and exist in a world where he is the apex predator. 

He pads down the cool hallway, towards Hannibal’s ajar bedroom door. He can hear the crashing of the waves echoing from his room- Hannibal must sleep with the windows open. As he approaches, he hears the bed creak. Perhaps Hannibal is still asleep? That would be highly unusual- the sun has broken through the clouds and is shining in earnest. Maybe Hannibal is as hungover as Will is? Also unlikely. 

Pressed against the crack, he is faced with an awake Hannibal. 

Hannibal’s hands, broad and scissored with faded scars, are clenched around his headboard. His hair, falling across his eyes, is looser than Will has ever seen it. Hannibal’s knees are bent, the sheet and thin duvet pooled at the end of the bed, hiding his elegant feet from view. He has folded a pillow to create a crevice and is thrusting into it without grace. 

Will watches Hannibal’s slim cheeks clench, sees the muscles in his thighs propel his hips forward, watches his heavy balls swing. Hannibal’s whole body is tensed, like a jaguar as it stalks the undergrowth. His biceps, far bigger than Will realized, strain with the effort of his movements. The Verger brand, raised pink and flushed, mirrors the winking of his asshole. Will has never seen Hannibal look so barbaric- has never seen his soft underbelly or his sweat. 

Will wonders who Hannibal imagines underneath him. Hannibal is fucking angrily, snapping his hips back and forth brutally. His whole body surges forward with his thrusts, as though he were trying to shove his entire being into that soft crevice. 

He thinks of their conversation yesterday, how Hannibal had described Alana as “surprisingly vanilla.” Definitely not her. 

He backs away softly, although he is sure that Hannibal has heard him or smelled him. He returns to the kitchen, caught in a haze of lust. It is hard to tell if it’s Hannibal’s or his own. Quickly, he puts Hannibal’s breakfast in the oven and strides out the back door.


	3. Chapter 3

Will doesn’t return to the house until the heat on the beach becomes unbearable. He spends most of the morning waist-deep in the frigid Atlantic, hoping the cold water slapping against his groin will quiet the stirring he feels there. 

When the sun, wind, and salt have started to make his bones ache, he turns back to shore. He can see a dark figure stretched out on the beach, nearly bare. Next to it, the crumpled outline of his shirt. He knows, as surely as he knows that he was meant to see what happened in Hannibal’s bed, that the figure is Hannibal. 

“Will. You look like Proteus emerging from the sea to sleep among your colony of seals,” Hannibal offers, shading his eyes with a raised hand. Hannibal’s olive skin has been tanned a deep gold, his chest hair bleached into a light grey.

“Does that make you Menelaus? Determined to capture me so you can atone for your sins?” 

Hannibal’s mouth draws upwards, satisfied that Will knows the myth. He always seems surprised that Will catches his allusions. Will, suddenly conscious of the fact that he is standing over Hannibal in slicked boxers and a bare chest, quickly drops down beside him. But not before he sees Hannibal stare at the jagged smile that wraps from his navel to hip.

“Do I have sins to atone for?” 

Will snorts at that and regrets it. How can he find that comment amusing? Just last night, he reminded Hannibal of exactly which sins Will would like him to atone for. But, in the harsh Cuban sunshine, it is so hard to see Hannibal as anything more than an old man. 

Will sighs, wondering what his next move should be. Should he confront Hannibal about the morning? About last night? What does Hannibal expect him to do? 

He mirrors Hanibal’s pose, curled on the warm sand like twins in the womb.

“Were you thinking of her?” He asks, voice barely louder than the wind. 

Hannibal’s brows raise. Will feels his surprise radiate through the invisible cord that seems to bind them. He knows that Hannibal isn’t surprised that Will saw- oh no, that was exactly what he wanted. Hannibal is surprised that Will asked. And for that, Will feels proud. 

“Of Alana?

Will nods, although he knows Hannibal wasn’t. 

“No. I rarely think of her that way, now. Hard to fuck your jailer,” Hannibal responds, the word “fuck” dripping sinfully from his lips, landing next to the “pussy” he dropped the night before. 

Will has never heard Hannibal use coarse language outside of his sexual exploits. Interesting. He wonders if Hannibal talks dirty in bed. 

They lie there in silence, listening to the crashing waves and baking in the sun. Both of them find a tremendous amount of peace in the sound of the ocean, for two men who nearly drowned. Will supposes that they truly might be twins, birthed from the roiling sea, and desperate to return to their mother.

Some time passes, before, seemingly out of nowhere, Hannibal says, 

“I was thinking of my aunt.” 

“The Lady Murasaki?” Will asks, enraptured. 

“Did Chiyoh tell you about her?” Hannibal is clearly surprised that Will knows of whom he speaks. 

Will nods, afraid to speak of the past and break the peace of the moment. It is rare for Hannibal to divulge his thoughts, particularly if they are about his past.

“Were you together?” 

Hannibal rolls onto his back, staring at the white shadows of the gulls overhead. 

“What does it mean to be “together? Were we lovers? Yes, for a time.”

Will’s heart is tapping against his ribs. His throat, dry from the salt, and from the weight of their conversation. 

“Did you love her?” 

Hannibal swallows, his Adam's apple moving with the motion. Will notices that Hannibal has begun to sweat in the noon heat. There is a bead, slowly sliding down his neck into the ditch of his collarbone. 

“I was in awe of her. I had never seen someone command the attention of a room in the way she did. She could have every head turned her way without saying a word,” Hannibal breathes. 

“How old were you when your relationship began?” 

Hannibal turns his head back to Will and says, smirk emphasizing his crows’ feet, 

“Why are you interested? I thought, as you said last night, you feel no compassion for me?” 

Perhaps it is the familiar heartbeat of the tide or the radiant heat of the fine sand on their private beach. Maybe it is the lazy circling of the gulls or the vulnerability of Hannibal nestled before him. Maybe it is simply that Will is so, so tired that he is compelled to say, 

“Sometimes, I feel like we are twins. Like we came from the same place.” 

Hannibal’s eyes are two pools of oil. He swallows again. Another bead of sweat dances its way into the ditch. 

“I was sixteen. I had been half in love with her since I came to stay with my Uncle Robertas at the age of twelve. Most everyone who met her was in love with her. She had a flat in Paris, where I was going to boarding school.” 

Will can scarcely breathe, he is so afraid of disrupting this moment. For the first time in their many years, Hannibal is about to tell him the truth. A whole truth, with no omissions or metaphors or manipulations. 

“I was mute for many years after Mischa died. It was Lady Murasaki who sat with me in the evenings and spoke with me. She did not just tolerate my silence- she enjoyed it. On one such evening, over the winter holidays from school, she asked me if I had a girlfriend.” 

Hannibal seems lost in this memory, and Will can tell from Hannibal’s eyes that he is no longer lying on the beach next to Will. He knows that Hannibal is inside of his sixteen-year-old self, in a Parisian apartment, in his mind palace. 

“She surmised from my blush that I did not. She told me that she thought it was important for me to learn how to pleasure a woman because with pleasure comes power. Slowly, over time, she began to tell me about women’s bodies and the ways that they work. I would test out her suggestions on my female classmates and report back to her.” 

“What did she suggest that you didn’t already know?” 

Hannibal’s flash of teeth is wicked. 

“A great many things. How to pinch the bud of a woman’s clitoris between teeth and tongue. How to roll a woman’s nipple while suckling against her other breast. How to come without getting a girl pregnant. How to braid a woman’s hair and shave a woman’s legs. How to have sex while she menstruates without making a mess. How to loosen a woman’s asshole with fingers and tongue.” 

Will turns so that he is lying on his front, in an effort to conceal his modesty. Instead, his position emphasizes the plump globes of his ass.

“Did she ever let you do any of that to her?” 

“Not for a long time,” Hannibal muses. 

Will watches the human behind the Hannibal machine retreat. He can see the person suit slip back on, like fine silk. He braces himself for a manipulation. 

“Tell me, Will, did your father teach you any of these things?” 

Will grimaces, reaching a hand into his tangled hair and huffing a laugh into the sand. 

“My father taught me how to catch a largemouth bass by fishing in rivers without weeds, and how horizontally opposed pistons balance each other.” 

Hannibal chuckles. 

“When I finally lost my virginity, I was already living on my own.”  
Some small, toxically masculine part of Will, wants to say that he was more sexually adept than Hannibal. That he, too, began fucking hordes of girls when he was sixteen. 

“How old were you, dear Will, when you tasted a woman for the first time?” 

Will laughs, aware of how his smile is crooked now. Jerked upwards on one side by an angry red line. 

“I was a senior in college, I think. Probably about twenty, twenty-one maybe. Took my TA out to a fancy dinner, fucked her back at her dorm while her roommate slept beside us.” 

“Did she come?’

“Yes, although it was after me. You know what they say about virgin boys.”

Hannibal hums, satisfied. He rises stiffly, drawing up to his full height, placing a hand over the scar on his belly where the Dragon’s bullet exited. 

“Come, Will. I think a light lunch is on the menu.” 

He reaches a hand down, like Michelangelo’s God, and Will, buoyed by the fragile peace between them, reaches back.


	4. Chapter 4

Their truce lasts through the afternoon. They take turns rinsing their feet in the outdoor shower before entering the house (which Hannibal keeps fastidiously clean.) Will sits at the counter to watch Hannibal prepare a Nicoise, listening to him drone on about the arguments between French traditionalists and modern recipe writers. Surprisingly, Hannibal agrees with the modernists. So, of course, Will plays the devil’s advocate for the traditionalists. 

Will finishes his salad with a wince, as his teeth grind an anchovy into pulp and smear some of its salt against his scar. 

After lunch, Hannibal gets out the vaporizer. Each afternoon, before they groan through their physical therapy, Hannibal insists that they smoke. Both are wary of opioids and Hannibal is fascinated by the medicinal qualities of marijuana. Will smoked his fair share of pot as a teenage loner but hasn’t touched the stuff since he started at the FBI. He would like to think that they don’t need THC to help their aches, but there have been times where even a simple child’s pose has caused his eyes to mist. 

He watches Hannibal’s lithe hands grip the slim black pen. For hands that have snapped vertebra and bruised faces, they are surprisingly gentle. 

“Cheers,” Hannibal says with a wink, placing the tip between his lips and closing his eyes while his chest swells with the depth of his inhale. 

While he holds the breath, with his eyes still closed, he passes the pen to Will. The satin skin of his pinky brushes against Will’s hand as he receives it, and Hannibal times his exhale to the contact. 

Will lifts the pen to his mouth, aware of the intimacy of this act. His lips, resting where Hannibal’s were. Tasting the same metal and plastic. He wonders how many of Hannibal’s cells will be covered with his own. How many of Hannibal’s organisms will nestle in the cracks of his lips to die. 

They smoke in silence, leaning against the kitchen counter and listening to the surf. Every few heartbeats, the vape is passed between them, still warm from the other’s lips. 

“Where do you get your weed?” Will asks, to fill the silence. 

Hannibal looks offended. 

“The garden,” he responds with a boyish smirk. 

“Not possible. Try again.” 

Will lifts his chin in challenge, well aware of how finicky cannabis plants can be. Hannibal has the pen in his mouth when he says it, and Hannibal almost wastes his inhale on a chuckle. 

Good. 

“Are you going to arrest me, Special Agent Graham?” 

It’s the first time anyone’s called Will by that in months. It doesn’t make him snap to attention like a falcon to an outstretched arm. They’re just words. They feel abandoned. 

“Would you like me to?” 

Hannibal swallows. Looks him in the eyes. Will knows that when Hannibal does those two things, it means he is engrossed. 

“Are you flirting with me, Will?” 

Will doesn’t know if he is. He knows that the burnt vapor and the easiness of their banter have lowered his defenses. He doesn’t want to think about it, doesn’t want the lightness between them to become swollen again. 

So, he laughs it off. Snatches the pen from Hannibal’s fingers for one last hit, and says, 

“You’d know if I was.” 

Will doesn’t wait to see Hannibal’s response- he turns from their island and strides to the patio. If his hips swing slightly, it’s certainly not flirtatious. He’s just loose from the weed. 

* * *  
They have a routine. Hannibal swims laps in the pool while Will stretches. Unsurprisingly, Hannibal’s recovery has been more arduous than Will’s, on account of his age, his poor diet in the BSHCI, and the nature of his bullet wound. He sometimes winces when he has to sit up suddenly, and Will knows that the real reason Hannibal took the bedroom on the main floor of the house was in an effort to avoid the stairs. 

Although Hannibal’s laps are slow, they are full of grace. His whole body moves as though it is one single limb- he slices through the water like the tip of an ice ship. His feet, not as large as Will’s but still formidable, propel him with the grace of a dancer. He hardly splashes the water as he bullets forward. Will would not know that the movement of Hannibal’s arms pains him if he didn’t see the way that Hannibal rests on the edge of the pool when he finishes. He always makes sure to stand just where his feet can reach, with his arms on the ledge. 

Hannibal will fix his eyes on an object near Will- perhaps the rose bush or his water bottle. It hardly matters. Hannibal’s mask slips back on- his whole face becomes as inscrutable as marble. Will senses that Hannibal goes somewhere deep inside his palace to distract himself from the pain. Sometimes, Hannibal goes so far inside himself that his body betrays him- his hands will tremble, his eyebrows will crease in dismay. 

Once, after pushing himself particularly hard, Hannibal let go of the ledge and slipped back. When he righted himself, Will heard a slight groan of pain. It was the most powerless he had ever seen Hannibal. Hannibal made sure that he didn’t see it again. 

* * *

On this particular day, Hannibal decides to join Will with his stretches. He had swum a meager five laps and was clearly feeling good. He rises from the pool like Aphrodite from her shell. The resonant slap of his wet feet against the burnt siena tiles cuts a path towards Will; if Hannibal is being careless with his feet, it’s because he feels confident. 

Will has propped Hannibal’s tablet on a side table so that he can watch his yoga videos from the comfort of his mat. Without question or ceremony, Hannibal unrolls his own mat next to Will’s. This is new. 

“Mind if I join you?” 

Will grunts his assent, focused on maintaining his downward dog. They spend several moments in silence, breathing heavily as they shift from lunges to squats to stretches. Hannibal is so close to Will he can smell the chlorine on his skin. 

When Will dares to glance over, he can see that Hannibal is maintaining a perfect compass pose. His left leg is stretched straight into the air, parallel to his seated torso. His right leg, bent beneath him, drives his powerful hips into the mat. His right arm is stretched to grab the sole of the left foot, twisting his body towards the pool. The proud jut of his chin, like that of conquering Achilles, highlights his alpine cheekbones. His eyes are closed, and Will watches the slow expansion and retraction of his chest as he breathes deeply, almost meditatively. 

“Yoga fan, Dr. Lecter?” 

Will is trying to mimic the pose, with limited success. He can’t get his wonky shoulder to press against his leg correctly, and his hamstrings are trembling with the effort.

Everything Hannibal does, he does with ease. 

“Mmmm.” 

Hannibal opens his eyes and breathes, decisively, before slowly releasing his leg. 

“I have a great appreciation for all ancient arts,” he says, resting his heels against his inner thighs and straightening his spine. 

“Glad one of us does. I hate it,” Will grumbles, still trying to find the strength to finish the stretch. He resents the fact that his body will never move as beautifully as Hannibal’s, despite his younger age. 

“It takes time. I had a lover once, when I was very young, who practiced yoga each morning. He was very nimble,” Hannibal says with a smirk. 

“He?” 

The lines in Hannibal’s forehead crease upward. 

“Come now, Will. Surely you know that my appetites are not only sated by women.” 

Will yanks his leg down, suddenly aware of how much he has on display. He wonders if Hannibal could see the outline of his aching balls, the soft fold of his penis. His thigh is still quivering from the strain of the stretch. 

“I’ve never heard you talk about a man before.” 

“We have not spoken much of our romantic whims before yesterday.” 

Will jerks his head in a begrudging nod. 

“Fair enough.” 

“Have you ever been with a man, Will?” 

Will falls into old habits and adjusts the frame of his glasses to obscure Hannibal’s eyes. Things had been so easy, between them. Easier than they ever had been, even when they first met and Will had trusted Hannibal with all things. He can feel the old Will Graham, the shattered teacup, rattling inside his skin. 

“What do you think?” He asks, desperate to free himself from this breezeless place. Afraid, about what it means that he cares what Hannibal thinks. 

“I wouldn’t presume to know, Will. I know very little about your affairs.” 

Will’s laugh is too harsh for the stillness of the garden. It slices through the tension as a poisoned arrow cuts through flesh. 

“I don’t think I’ve ever had an “affair,” Hannibal.” 

His mouth is too dry, his scar pulls the skin of his cheek too tight. He feels like a fly on the eyelash of a Venus Flytrap. He risks a quick glance to Hannibal and finds that he looks just as on-edge. He feels the phantom fingers of his empathy read Hannibal before he clenches them into a fist. Hannibal is disappointed. Lonely, perhaps. It doesn’t make any sense until he says, 

“I think I have only had affairs.” 

Oh.


	5. Chapter 5

“You mean you’ve never been in a relationship before? What happened with Alana? Bedelia?” 

Will’s jaw is set, his tongue too big behind his teeth. He can feel the familiar hatred simmering, rising to a boil. There’s a game being played here, there has to be. Hannibal can never just let things be. 

Hannibal is still firmly locked away behind the person suit. His whole body, once sun-warmed and lithe and achingly human, looks hard. Impenetrable. Will wants to loose every arrow in his verbal quiver and watch them break as they bounce off of Hannibal’s chest. 

“Power is what happened, Will.” 

“What, so you only fuck to control? Never for pleasure or love?” 

Will wants to spit on Hannibal’s face and breathe life into the statue. He wants the Hannibal who played with his feet with flushed cheeks and a wine-warmed tongue. Instead, he straightens his own spine, forces his twitching hands to still, and draws up his own wall. Mirrors Hannibal’s silent bastion. 

“Must pleasure and power exist separately?” 

Will swallows. 

“For me, yes. I could never make love to someone as a means of influence.” 

He watches the muscle under Hannibal’s cheekbone clench. He’s offended. 

“I don’t think that’s true,” he begins. 

It’s too hot in the sun, under the weight of Hannibal’s magnifying glass. Will feels his skin splitting at the seams, revealing blistering bones and bubbling blood. 

“-We’re not talking about me. Stop playing games! I know you only fucked Alana to hurt me and to blind her, but Bedelia? Why her?” 

Will doesn’t bother hiding the coating of hatred that swathes her name. Hannibal knows how Will and Bedelia feel about each other. 

Hannibal squares his broad shoulders. His nostrils flare, eyelids fluttering as he draws a sharp breath through his nose. A wicked smile distorts his features. The same smile he gave Will when he came to visit him in the BSCHI for the first time. Will knows that his mirror bastion will crumble with whatever Hannibal says next, but cannot stop him from saying it. 

“Jealousy smells exquisite on you, Will. Far better than fear.” 

Will’s arm shoots out, faster than the striking cobra of Hannibal’s words, and slaps him across the face. Unsparingly. The contact echoes back to him from the tiles and garden hedges. 

Hannibal’s upper body pitches to the left with the force of the slap and a soft grunt. His closed eyes slant towards his temples, his mouth falling open in an expression of euphoria. 

“Again,” Hannibal breathes, eyes still closed and head tilted back, sun kissing his sharp angles. 

Will’s balls rest heavily against the seam of his shorts. An ache begins in them and spreads like cancer. He cups his hand, still stinging, around Hannibal’s chin. Brings their eyes level. 

“You’re not the one in control anymore.” 

Hannibal’s tongue swipes slowly across his lower lip. Will watches the glistening trail it leaves behind before dropping his hand from Hannibal’s face to rest it in his lap. 

“I know,” Hannibal says, in the way that Molly used to tell Will she loved him.

Will closes his eyes, breaks off the intimacy of their contact, and stands, feeling the beginnings of a panic attack stirring in the base of his chest. He needs to get away, what the fuck is he doing? He has a wife, a son, a pack of dogs who are waiting for him. Looking for him. And he’s sitting in the garden of a Cuban cottage, half-hard, slapping the man who has destroyed his life and wants to do it again. 

“Breathe, Will. Tell me where you are.” 

Hannibal stays seated, looking up at him in supplication like a pilgrim on the Spanish Steps. It’s the worst thing Hannibal could do- a reminder of how steady he used to make Will. How shaky Will is now. 

The familiar pounding of Will’s heart begins- it jumps under his Adam's apple, whooshes sickly in his ears. Can feel it cracking his rips, splitting the skin of his chest like a ripe peach, and leaping into Hannibal’s hands, arteries and veins pulling Will forward with the motion. It’s a hallucination, it has to be. He tries to speak, but nothing comes out but a warbling moan. He can hear Hannibal, the real Hannibal, calling out to him. 

As breathing becomes harder and his vision gets hazy, he sees Hannibal cup the heart in his hands, like the Eucharist, swipe his tongue lazily along the surface until it glistens with his saliva instead of Will’s blood. Watches Hannibal’s mismatched canines pierce the flesh as glinting tears mingle with saliva and gore. When Hannibal bites a chunk of flesh and sends it to his molars to chew, for the first time in Will Graham’s 38 years of life, he cums in his pants.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Your comments and kudos have meant so much to me! I've been in this fandom since 2013, but have rarely felt confident enough to interact with other Fannibals. Thank you all for your kind words and your interest in this fic. <3


	6. Chapter 6

Will blinks and raises his shaking hands to his chest to confirm that his heart is still beating within the cage of his ribs. He’s drenched in sweat, can smell its sour tang. His shorts are uncomfortably tacky- they cling to his still-turgid member. He can feel a slow, viscous drip of semen sliding down his thigh. The shame is so overwhelming that he sways on his feet, can feel the blood swimming in his face and across his cheekbones. 

A hand steadies him. 

“It’s 3 pm. You are in Matanzas, Cuba. Your name is Will Graham.” 

Will sucks in a shuddering breath, feels the humid air rush against his hollowed cheeks. 

“Come, Will. Let’s get you inside and clean.” 

Hannibal’s tone reminds Will of how he used to speak to Abigail. As if she were a skittish horse that just needed a gentling. He hates that he likes it. Hates that he needs it. 

“It’s 3 pm. I’m in Matanzas, Cuba. My name is Will Graham.” 

Will hasn’t spoken words such as those aloud in four years. They turn sour in his mouth. 

Hannibal is still at his feet, looking at Will with awe. He watches as Hannibal slowly runs his finger against the sensitive skin of his inner thigh. Watches his semen collect on the tip like a freshly-harvested pearl. He knows what Hannibal is about to do, knows that any protest wouldn’t stop it. 

Hannibal holds his cum-coated finger beneath his nose, nostrils fluttering as he scents it. Then, he promptly puts his finger in his mouth, his salient lips creating a seal. Hannibal’s eyes are open and slick with tears, just as they were moments ago while he consumed Will’s heart. He moans, quietly, as if he has no control over the vocalization. 

It’s too much. Will turns his back on him, stiffly striding back into the house. He turns the shower to boiling and promptly crumples into the corner, knees folded up so he can rest his face on them. He doesn’t know how much time passes, but he’s sure it’s been far too long when he hears a soft knock on the door. 

“Will? Are you alright?” 

Ha. Loaded question. He laughs bitterly into his knees, pressing his fingers into his eyes until he sees stars. 

“Yeah. Fine,” he calls back, in an effort to prevent Hannibal from invading his space further. Hannibal doesn’t reply, and Will wonders what minefield he will walk out into when the shower runs cold. It’s been years since he’s had an attack like this; before Molly. It seems that Hannibal brings his madness out. That should terrify him, but it fills him with a sick adrenaline rush instead. 

He stands, feeling his vertebra click as he turns the water off. After wrapping a towel around his waist and attempting to dry his curls, Will pads into his bedroom to find some clothes already laid across his bed. Soft linen pants and a cotton button-up. While the Will trapped underneath his skin would rankle at having his clothing dictated, the current Will has no problem with it. It’s kind of nice, one less thing for his exhausted mind to think about. He slides into the clothing and leaves his towel in the hamper, conscious of the fact that Hannibal didn’t put out any underwear. 

Will pads out to the kitchen, where he sees the rice cooker going but no Hannibal. He can smell smoke and knows that Hannibal must be grilling their supper. He helps himself to a beer, brings one out to Hannibal. Knows that they’ll need some liquid courage for this conversation. Dimly, he wonders if they will ever be honest without substances between them. 

“Feeling better, Will?” 

Hannibal is standing over the grill, sweat beading at his temples from the heat. He has a navy apron strapped across his broad chest and knotted neatly at his waist, with a pair of tongs tucked into its large front pocket. There’s something about the outfit, the way Hannibal looks with a cold beer in his hand and with his eyes squinted against the setting sun, that reminds Will of his father. 

“No worse,” Will replies, plopping into one of their patio chairs and taking a long gulp of beer. 

“You have nothing to be ashamed of, Will. It is not uncommon for the body to have intense physical reactions during panic attacks,” Hannibal says, turning back to the grill to flip something. 

Will flushes, focuses his eyes on his bare feet nestled in the grass. 

“I don’t think it was a panic attack.” 

Hannibal doesn’t turn, but his shoulders tense. He keeps his back to Will and asks, 

“Well, what was it?” 

“A… hallucination. I think.” 

Hannibal’s hand clenches around the neck of the bottle. Will absently thinks about how many human necks have felt the same sensation. He still doesn’t turn around. Will is surprised to find that he wants him to. 

“What did you see?”

“I saw myself dying,” Will evades. 

He knows Hannibal probably senses the half-truth. Hannibal seems content to let it lie, for now. 

“How often have the hallucinations persisted, after your recovery?” 

“I haven’t seen anything since the Dragon. Before that, nothing since you were put away.” 

Hannibal nods, turning to face Will. 

“Have you had headaches? Fever?” 

Will’s blood rushes in his ears with the same ambient noise as cars on a highway. He hadn’t thought of that. 

“You think I’m sick? Again?” 

Hannibal’s lips are set in a thin line. Will realizes that this is probably the face that his patients in the ER saw. Grim determination, calculated indifference. 

“Perhaps. Although I haven’t smelled it on you. How have you been sleeping?” 

“I’ve never been a good sleeper. No headaches, other than my hangover. I’ve been hot, but I always run hot,” Will can hear the panic in his voice clipping his words short. Like gunshots. 

Hannibal is suddenly in front of him, a gentle hand on his face. His touch is so light- he handles Will as though he is fragile. As though the slightest pressure would cause him to shatter. A teacup, recently glued back together. Will hates it. He brings Will’s eyes up to his own. 

“Don’t panic, Will. If it’s a relapse, we will treat it. But I do not think it is encephalitis. You've had no other symptoms and you smell healthy to me. I did not taste anything untoward in your semen, either.” 

Will jerks his face out of Hannibal’s palm, the events of earlier crashing through his panic. He barks an angry little laugh and crosses his arms. 

“Ah yes. I’m sure you ate my cum for purely diagnostic reasons, Doctor.” 

Hannibal stands, dusting his knees off. He smirks, eyes twinkling. 

“Of course.” 

He returns to the grill, clucking softly as he moves some blackened peppers onto a serving tray. It seems that that is all they are going to say on the matter, and Will feels relief rush through his veins. 

“As I said before, Will. You have nothing to be ashamed of. Your body was performing an entirely normal function.” 

“Yes, Hannibal, it is totally normal for a thirty-eight-year-old to cream his jeans like a teenager. Definitely not embarrassing for that to happen after slapping a friend across the face. Speaking of which, how is your face?” 

Will’s vitriolic sarcasm is cut short by the memory of the slap. He wonders if Hannibal will bruise. If his skin is already aching. 

Hannibal sniffs, straightening regally. 

“I’m fine, thank you, Will. And premature ejaculation is a very common problem for middle-aged men. Particularly for men who are not masturbating regularly.” 

“And how do you know I’m not masturbating?” 

Hannibal chuckles, shaking his head. 

“You have me there.” 

Will smirks, raising his beer in sarcastic salute. In truth, Will hadn’t masturbated until the night before. Doesn’t want to think about the reasons for that right now. Doesn’t want to acknowledge that he will definitely come with his foot pressed against the bedpost again. Maybe tonight. 

“So, what the fuck do you think is wrong with me?”

Hannibal sighs. His shoulders release. 

“May I be frank?” 

“Is that your code word for rude? I would say that manners hardly exist between us now, Doctor.” 

“You may not enjoy what I say.” 

“When has that ever mattered before?” 

Hannibal gives him a look that somehow transcends the boundary between stern and apologetic. 

“I think you are ailed by a sexuality crisis.” 

“A sexuality crisis…” Will parrots back, testing the words out in his mouth. He doesn’t like how they taste. 

Hannibal just stands there, cataloging every movement of his body, every tic in his face. 

“Yes.” 

Silence, as much as there can be in rural Cuba, descends like a curtain. Will sips his beer, poking the sore bruise of his anger. 

“What has led you to this diagnosis?” 

Hannibal raises a brow. 

“Come now, Will. You’re far too intelligent for that.” 

Will starts to scratch the bruise, feels the pins and needles shoot through him. 

“Perhaps. But I want you to tell me all the same.” 

“Fine. Your increased interest in my affairs. Your surprise at my pansexuality. The incident this morning, which occurred after an intimate exchange. Need I go on?” 

Will nearly spits out his beer. The anger, soothed by Hannibal’s gentleness and his brief panic over the prospect of a relapse, aches again. He is up before he knows it, standing behind Hannibal with two fists at his sides. He’s scratched the bruise hard enough to draw blood. 

In a monotonous, cool voice, he says, 

“Need I remind you of my happy marriage? You fucking narcissist! You can’t picture any part of me that doesn’t include you.” 

Hannibal turns, his back brushing against Will’s chest as he does. He holds his height over Will as though there were six inches between them, not one. His face is distorted into an image of cruelty. In the dying sunlight, he almost looks like a skull. 

“If your marriage was so happy, why are you here?”


	7. Chapter 7

“I don’t know!” 

Will takes off his glasses and pinches the bridge of his nose. 

“You were never my victim, Will. Stop playing the part- it doesn’t suit you.” 

Hannibal still stands over him. Will can feel the ambient heat of his body, smell the beer on his breath. 

“What would you do if I left?” 

Hannibal’s whole body stills. Like a tiger, before the strike. 

“The same as you would do to me, I imagine.” 

“Oh, and what’s that?” 

“I’d kill you, with my bare hands. We are conjoined, as I believe you once said. There is no life for either of us without the other.” 

There is a hissing sound from the grill, and Hannibal’s body turns slightly toward it. 

“The meat is going to burn,” Will spits, uncomfortable with the truth Hannibal has spoken. He doesn’t deny that he would kill Hannibal. 

“Let it.” Hannibal is staring at him with an expression akin to religious fervor. 

Will swallows. 

“I didn’t want this, Hannibal. We weren’t supposed to live.” 

Hannibal says nothing, his silence as good as acceptance. 

“And now that we’re here, playing house, it’s too much. I look at you and I see the manifestation of my guilt. Of my crimes by association. I wasn’t kidding when I said each crime of yours is one I feel guilty of. You were right- we’re at a zero-sum game. There is no way forward.” 

“Unless we change the rules,” Hannibal whispers. 

“What do you propose?” 

“What I have wanted for you from the very beginning. I want you to let go. Dismiss your guilt, your assimilative tendencies. Become.” 

Will breathes out in a whoosh, feels his lungs empty themselves. He waits a moment, choking before he gasps for more air. 

“What if I don’t become what you want me to?” 

“Not possible. I will delight in every and any form you take.” 

Will leans back, laughing in disbelief. 

“What if the monster inside of me is not suited to your tastes? What if I become a rapist? Or a man like Mason Verger? What if I lose my mind? You can’t say you’ll like every form I can take.” 

Hannibal sighs like a frustrated parent. 

“You are the only person I could never entirely predict. I am committed to seeing your transformation through to its natural conclusion, consequences be damned. Start over, Will. Forget the past; focus on the present.” 

“You know I can’t let go of the past!. You’ve tried to kill everything I loved because I refused to love you. What if I never do?” 

Hannibal raises a hand to the cheek Will slapped. Pushes against the phantom imprint of his hand. 

“You will.” 

“How can you be so sure?” 

Will feels small. Far younger than nearly-forty. Hannibal looks so old in the dusk. Like an oracle from an ancient time. 

Hannibal’s smile is a fragile thing. The flicker of a prayer candle, there and then gone. 

“Because I believe in destiny. And I know that we are meant to be together, in this life and the next. Like you said- we are twins. Separated at birth and reunited again. Nothing can come between us, anymore, except for us.” 

Will shivers. Hears the rice cooker chime distantly. Ignores the empty maw of his stomach, once able to go a full twenty hours without food and now accustomed to three square meals a day, plus snacks. 

“Bedelia told me that you love me. She implied that the attraction was romantic. That you, “find nourishment at the very sight of me.” Are you even capable of that? Or do you just want to possess me?” 

Hannibal’s lip curls in distaste at the mention of Bedelia. No love lost there. 

“I have never loved another as I have cared for you. I don’t know if what I feel can be confined to labels. I have felt for you like a brother, a friend, a mentor, a parent, a lover. I love you still as a combination of all those things. If my love is reciprocated in any combination, I will be content.” 

Will swallows. Rubs his hand across his mouth. Tries to conceal the well of emotion that has been tapped by Hannibal’s confession. Waits for his voice to be steady before he responds. 

“And what about possessing me?” 

Something deep and dark flickers across Hannibal’s face. 

“Oh yes. I want to own you. Ideally, we wouldn’t know where one of us begins and the other ends.” 

Will feels something tighten deep in his guts. Maybe some leftover scar tissue from his smile. 

“What if you’re wrong about my “sexuality crisis?” Would you be content to go without sex for the rest of your life?” 

Hannibal’s eyes catch the purple hue of the darkening sky and shine like pomegranates. 

“Would you?” 

“My answer is contingent upon yours.” 

Hannibal hums, pleased by Will’s stubbornness. 

“Sex and love have never been connected for me. I don’t see why a lack of romantic attraction would stop either one of us from physical pursuits. If we are to exist platonically, I will whet my appetites elsewhere, as I would expect you to do as well.” 

Strangely, Will feels a wave of possessiveness coil in his stomach. He pictures Hannibal moving over a woman, bent in half like this morning’s pillow. Fucking her and licking her pussy. Sighing in ecstasy into her hair. Hears her moans waft through the vents, pictures coming down for breakfast, and hearing the creak of the headboard. He doesn’t question why he doesn’t imagine Hannibal with a man. Doesn’t want to think about why his hand tightens around his beer. 

“Not in the house,” Will says, trying to keep the bitterness out of his voice. 

“Not in the house,” Hannibal echoes. 

Hannibal continues to stand above Will, unmoving, even as the silence between them stretches thin. He looks thoughtful; he is staring, similar to when he swims his laps, at an unfixed object. Will tries to stop his body from closing the inch between them, from getting sucked into the riptide of Hannibal’s warmth. 

Above him, Hannibal says, “I have one condition.” 

“Yes?” 

“We resume our therapy.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: discussion of food issues and disordered eating

They eat a modest dinner that night, crowded around the small table in the kitchen. It reminds Will of the very first meal they shared, all those years ago. Protein scramble in a dark motel room. He wonders how much of their new home is reflective of Hannibal’s taste and how much of it exists from necessity. 

The cottage is small- two floors, two bedrooms, two and a half baths. No study or dining room. Clean white concrete walls and terracotta tiles. Polished oak tables and chairs; rustic accents. The kitchen they’re eating in is far removed from the stainless steel and pretension of Hannibal’s Baltimore home. 

“How long have you had this place? Will wonders aloud, breaking the calm. 

Hannibal smiles into his coconut rice, spearing a vegetable with satisfaction. 

“Six years, give or take. It’s one of my newer properties.” 

“Out of how many?” 

“How many does the FBI think I have?” 

“Six. Excluding the Delaware house.”

“Tsk tsk. Jack truly was a dull boy. I currently own sixteen properties.” 

Will sits back, impressed. 

“Shit.” 

Hannibal preens, pleased by Will’s astonishment. 

“Once I became settled in Baltimore, I found it very important to maintain strong, untraceable ties to the places that are important to me. So, I hired a property manager to acquire and manage my various estates in the event that I needed them. Unfortunately, my need to be discreet has meant that most of my homes are more reflective of their tenants’ tastes than mine.” 

“So someone lived here?” 

Will’s mind begins to race. He wonders where the tenant is now. If the meat that was ruined on the grill was pork. He looks at the knick-knacks on top of the kitchen cabinets and the Cuban folk art over the table. His pendulum swings before he can stop it. 

The person who lived here was older, probably female, and alone. She was a Cuban national, although she was likely critical of the old regime, based on the seclusion of the home. She had a family, hence her need for a guest bedroom. Probably had a career as a nurse or caretaker, based on the cottage’s abundance of medical supplies and the maternal touches throughout the home. 

“Will.” 

Hannibal’s dry hand is resting over Will’s. Squeezing just a bit too hard. Will pulls out of it, blinking and gasping, yanking his hand away as fast as he can. 

“Where is she?” He asks, sickly torn between apathy and disgust. 

Hannibal leaves his hand on the table, palm up. 

“When Chiyoh discovered us in Delaware, she contacted the property manager and asked for this home to be vacated. From what I understand, the prior tenant was relocated a few days prior to our arrival.” 

Will sighs, relieved. Part of him takes comfort in the fact that the wasted meat wasn’t human. He expects to feel bile pool at the thought but finds only saliva. He shivers, tries to ground himself in the present. 

“I want to know when I’m eating long pig.” 

“Of course. Tell me, Will, have you faced any difficulties with food after eating at my table?” 

“Already starting with the psychoanalysis, Doctor?” 

Hannibal dips his head in acceptance, flushed from the heat and the beer. 

Will raises a generous helping of rice to his lips and makes a show of swallowing. He can feel Hannibal’s gaze kiss his trachea. 

“I was never a good eater; you know that.” 

“And yet you looked very healthy to me, before the fall. Tell me, Will, did you gain weight during your marriage? Settle into the comforts of monogamy?” 

Hannibal withdraws his hand to bring another bite to his mouth. His knuckles whitecap as they flex around the fork. 

“Molly was a great cook, no doubt about that,” Will chuckles, enjoying the sting in Hannibal’s face at the words. 

Hannibal’s smile is not the fragile, tender thing that crossed his face out in the garden. Nor is it his cheeky smirk, the one he favors when Will challenges his ego. No, this one is all cruelty. Not so much a smile but an upward slash of his mouth. 

“She must have been, to get you to eat. I confess, during some of our appointments I was tempted to ask if you’d had lunch. Were you always a finicky eater?” 

Will leans back, rubbing his jaw. He hasn’t given much thought to his culinary tendencies.

“Growing up, my dad didn’t really cook. Didn’t have the time. I think the only time I saw my dad in the kitchen for more than five minutes was when we’d have fresh fish.” 

Hannibal is leaning forward, fingers steepled under his chin. Enthralled. 

“I wondered if your affection for seafood was connected to your father. Please, continue.” 

Will takes off his glasses, cleans the lenses on his shirt. Wonders if Hannibal knows that it’s one of his tells. Clears his throat. 

“Uh, yeah. Anyway, we moved around a lot, as I told you before. So I don’t think I became particularly attached to any regional foods or dishes until I was a cop in N’Orlans. I’d been a scrawny little thing until I settled there. Beignets and jambalaya sure helped me fit into my uniform better.” 

Hannibal’s veil has been fully pulled back. Apparently, food is the way to his heart, which makes a lot of sense. 

“I’ve only been to New Orleans once, but I would agree wholeheartedly. I have not seen another culinary epicenter like it within the United States.” 

“Really?! When were you there?” 

Will doesn’t bother hiding the excitement in his voice. 

“2004, I believe.” 

“Ah, we just missed each other. I left in 2003 after the stabbing.” 

The hollows of Hannibal’s face are shadowed in the warm light of the kitchen. 

“Ships in the night.” 

Will hums, scraping up the last of his dinner. 

“And were you always such a hedonist?” 

Will delights in lobbing the ball back, cannot deny that their rapport is part of what thrills him most about their relationship. 

“My passion for food came from many years where it was scarce.” 

“After Mischa?” 

Hannibal’s eyes flutter closed. As if the very name holds a reverent power. 

“After Mischa. Before living with my Uncle, I was in an orphanage. It was an inhospitable place full of cruelty and disease; we were given more beatings than food.” 

“Is that where you wove your veil?” 

Hannibal nods, swallowing. 

“I took delight in control. It was all the chaperones wanted and I refused to give it to them. After the first few months, it became a game.” 

“Did you goad them into beating you?” 

Hannibal smirks. 

“I began to delight in my own misery. I refused to eat their food- I would instead find scraps or forage in the surrounding woods. If you had known me then, I would have reminded you of one of your strays; a snapping, starving thing.” 

“Did you kill anyone there?” 

Hannibal’s face tightens. 

“Almost. I hit another boy with a rock until his skull cracked. He was a vegetable for the rest of his life, but he lived. I’d contemplated eating his brain, but was about to be discovered and had to flee.” 

“How old were you?” 

Hannibal’s canines glisten in the light.

“Eleven.” 

Will can feel the pull of the pendulum and digs his toes into the floor to resist it.

“And was your act righteous? Did the rock in your hand feel as just as King Solomon’s sword?” 

Hannibal leans forward, toes brushing Will’s. His oil-slicked eyes flash like the bulbs of an Angler fish. 

“He was a particularly rude boy. And I was so very hungry.” 

They laugh, mirror images of amusement. Will rubs the back of his neck, turning his damaged cheek away from Hannibal in an effort to preserve the integrity of his smile. 

“When did you learn to cook?” 

Hannibal’s face melts into fondness. Will feels a sharp tug against his sternum and refuses to acknowledge it. 

“From Lady Muraski. Chiyoh and I used to shadow her in the kitchen, soaking up her expertise and pestering her with questions. I had never seen someone look as powerful as she did when she was boning a pheasant.” 

“So you sought to surpass her in both style and culinary talent.” 

Hannibal casually places one of his warm feet over Will’s. Lets the weight rest, much like the heaviness of his eyes as they feast over Will’s face. 

“I suppose so. Although I don’t think I succeeded.” 

A contemplative silence falls as they finish their dinner. The peace of the beach has been brought inside with the bright, coconutty flavor of their meal and the ease of their camaraderie. It is all too easy, in moments like this, for Will to forget Hannibal’s sadism. 

But the sea, ceaseless as Fitzgerald’s boats against the current, pulls him back to the glint of blood in the moonlight. He can feel its tacky weight against his face, the euphoric taste of copper and salt in his mouth. The chimeric weight of the blade in his hand as he sliced through the belly of the Dragon. The euphoric rush as he ripped another man apart in a pantomime of his own disembowelment. 

Will is pulled from his reverie when Hannibal collects their bowls and stands, with a soft grunt.

“Let me do the dishes. I can tell your side is hurting you.” 

“Thank you, Will. Would you mind joining me in the sitting room before we retire? There is something I would like to discuss.” 

Will must not be able to conceal his anxiety well, for Hannibal quickly placates with, 

“Nothing to worry over, I assure you.” 

Will quirks a brow. 

“There’s always something to worry over when it comes to you.” 

Hannibal shrugs in an entirely charming way. He ambles off, favoring his left side slightly. Will wonders if Hannibal is consciously showing his pain to seem more human or if he is comfortable enough to leave the person suit hanging in the closet. 

He sighs, turning back to the dishwasher and bracing himself for whatever game is coming next.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, over 100 kudos!!! You guys have made me feel so loved- thank you for your kind comments, your kudos, and your bookmarks. They truly make my day. I'm kind of insecure about this chapter- let me know what you think!


	9. Chapter 9

Will ambles into the sitting room holding two glasses of whiskey. He’s nervous and hopes that the amber courage sloshing in his hands will help to rectify that. 

Hannibal is stretched out on the couch with his head pillowed on the armrest and his elegant feet resting on Will’s usual spot. Will supposes that he could sit in the chair opposite, but thinks that’s what Hannibal would expect him to do. So, he stands over Hannibal’s feet until they are drawn upwards with raised brows. However, rather than sitting upright, Hannibal merely places his feet across Will’s thighs with a small huff. 

As Will passes over Hannibal’s drink he says, 

“I’m not giving you a foot rub.” 

Hannibal’s upper lip kisses the glass as he takes a sip and hums his approval at the taste. 

“Good thing I didn’t ask.” 

Will settles back against the couch, cupping his glass and resting it on Hannibal's ankles.

He closes his eyes and pretends he is back in Molly’s cabin. They would have had a simple dinner- green beans and short ribs, perhaps. Wally would be sitting at the kitchen table, chewing on a pencil, and struggling through his math homework. The dogs would be playing in the snow, their yips and playful growls echoing across the fields and resounding against the double-paned windows. There’d be a jaunty fire warming his face, and Molly would be cozied up to him, pressing against all his sharp edges. She’d play with his hair in that way he won’t admit he loves and he’d listen to her bitch about work and insert some snarky comments to make her laugh. Wally would go to bed and maybe they’d drink a little before calling the dogs in and locking up the house. Will would follow her into the bedroom and read while she showered; what had he been reading before he left? Faulkner, he thinks. She’d come out smelling of her sesame oil body wash and rush to get under the covers and escape the chill of the room. He’d laugh, set his book aside, and tease her about putting on some clothes. She’d ask him to warm her up and he’d haphazardly throw his glasses somewhere safe before clutching her to him and kissing her neck. She’d palm him, always ready for her, and tell him she loved him. Her damp hair would hide his face from the world as she moved on top, guiding him home. Nipples rubbing together. He’d smother a grunt into her neck as he palms her ass and lets her take what she needs. Fast, easy, soft. He’d stroke the pearl of her clit until she came and then he’d pull out, coming across his own belly. She’d grab some of the tissues they keep next to the bed and clean him up, go pee, and come back with a little shiver. He’d kiss her forehead and wait for her to fall asleep while staring at the ceiling. Wondering when it would cave in. 

He opens his eyes to find them stinging. Presses his hand to their corners, and pinches hard to staunch any self-pity. He made his bed and he’s laying in it. She’s better off without him; the whole world is. He sips his whiskey, hissing at the burn. Chances a glance at Hannibal, who has been presumably staring at him this entire time. His face is inscrutable- too little and too many emotions for him to decipher and no real desire to. 

“What do you want, Hannibal?” 

Hannibal points his toes and then relaxes them. Does it again. Smiles, faintly. 

“A penny for your thoughts.” 

Will stares into his glass. Winces. 

“They aren’t very tasty.” 

“I’ll be the judge of that.” 

Will drags a hand down his face and decides to say “fuck it” and tell the truth. 

“I’m missing Molly. My dogs. Hell, even Wally, although I doubt he’s missing me.” 

“I’m sure you were an excellent father to him, Will. Freud often theorized that sons want to kill their-” 

“Freud was a fucking hack.” 

Hannibal blinks before a laugh erupts out of him, almost as though he wasn’t expecting it. 

“Too true. However, in this regard, I do believe he was correct. Perhaps it has less to do with his idea that sons want to fuck their mothers and more with the state of toxic masculinity…” 

Will holds up a hand and adjusts his position, causing Hannibal’s legs to knock together in a very undignified way. 

“Okay, please stop. I get it. Don’t need any more images burned onto the backs of my eyelids; they’re quite full.” 

Hannibal shifts with a small smile. Sips his whiskey again. Looks off into the distance as if posing for Will to draw his profile. 

“ I know the ache of longing for family all too well. I’m sorry Will.” 

“No, you’re not.” 

Will’s aware that his voice has gotten lower, darker. Can feel the seething rage curl his consonants into clipped sounds. Doesn’t care. 

Hannibal nods as if accepting that no, he really isn’t sorry. Smiles smugly into his glass. Will wants to knock it out from under his lips just to wipe the expression off his face. 

“Forgive me. I’m sorry you’re unhappy. But, you’re quite right; I have no regrets about sending the Dragon after them. I’m sure they were lovely to you. But they were nothing more than an illusion. There are no wives and children for men like us.” 

Will is surprised by how much it hurts. He thought that nothing Hannibal did or said could have cut deeper than the linoleum knife. He was wrong. 

“Haven’t you ever loved someone more than yourself? Wanted the best for them, wanted to be the best for them?” 

Hurt flickers across Hannibal’s face. He swallows, thinking. 

“You characterize me as unfeeling. But you, better than anyone, know that I am not the same monster as Ted Bundy or Tobias Budge. I have no regard for those who are unworthy of it but make no mistake, I feel just as deeply as you do.” 

“Feeling and loving unconditionally are two completely different things. And that’s your problem- your love is always conditional.” 

Hannibal meets Will’s gaze and holds it. His eyes are tight, lips pursed. It’s as if every muscle in his face has tensed to enhance the Slavic angles of his cheekbones. 

“You are not the first person to say that to me. Perhaps you’re right; maybe I will never truly understand the pain you’re experiencing. But know this, Will. That family wouldn’t have stopped this from happening. That family was a lie you told yourself; a very good one, but a lie nonetheless. Because I didn’t create the monster inside you, I just worshipped it. And isn’t it better that you exist here, where you can no longer hurt them?” 

Will does hit the glass out of his hands, then. Wickedly smiles when it hits the floor and shatters. Wonders if Hannibal saw it coming and allowed it to happen. Decides he doesn’t care, it felt too good. He knocks Hannibal’s pompous feet off of his lap, satisfied by the way Hannibal is jostled before he rights himself. 

“Don’t you see, Will? I am the only person in the world you cannot hurt.” 

Will jumps up, all agitation and anguish. Hates that Hannibal’s words sound true, hates that no amount of slapping or shattered glass will accomplish his end goal. He wants to go home, wants to go back to a life where Hannibal didn’t exist and where he could pretend he was someone else.

“I need to go to bed. Can whatever you wanted to talk about wait until morning?” 

Hannibal looks oddly small, sitting in the dark. He watches Will with a preternatural stillness. As if one false move will scare him off. 

“Of course.” 

Will rubs the back of his neck, embarrassed and angry with himself. 

“Thanks. Goodnight.” 

Hannibal’s eyes glitter and he tilts his head in acknowledgment. 

“Mind the glass.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What on Earth could Hanni possibly want to talk about??!? 
> 
> Please let me know what you think, I've been worried since the comments have slowed that people aren't liking the direction of this story...


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: boypussy  
> SORRY for more het!sex but Will is having a sexual crisis over here

Will retires to his room only to be eluded by sleep. His bed is far too cold, too still. Before Molly, he had the dogs. Before the dogs, he’d drink and imagine the weight of someone curled around him, rubbing his tummy and breathing against his neck. Dimly, he realizes that this is the first night he’s returned to that particular habit; he’s surprised that his touch-starvation hasn’t bothered him until now. Hannibal’s probably been drugging him. 

He rolls onto his back, accepting that this will be another sleepless night. Decides to see if he can self-soothe by touching himself, although he knows from experience that this logic is flawed. He kicks the covers off to the bottom of the bed and runs his hand down his stomach. Skirts his fingers over the smile, which is surprisingly sensitive. Remembers how Molly used to spend hours lapping it with her long tongue, delighting in how just that could make his cock leak and his thighs tremble. Tries to forget how in those moments, part of the reason he reacted so quickly was that the scar was a reminder of Hannibal. 

He brings his hand lower, cupping the base of his cock, which is beginning to fill. Wishes for a phone so he could watch some porn. So he could call somebody. He fumbles in the bedside drawer for the bottle of hand lotion he nicked from the downstairs bathroom when they first settled into their new home and squirts some in his hand. Runs through his eidetic Rolodex of past experiences and fantasies. 

He remembers one of the early days in his relationship with Molly. Before they lived together. He’d taken her to dinner at a nice place in Bangor and they’d shared a cab back to his place. She was wearing a tight little dress, with sheer black nylons that emphasized her small waist and broad hips. The plump globes of her breasts were pushed up by a strapless black bra that left marks on her skin when he undid it with his teeth. He remembers burying his face in them, breathing in the soft warmth of her skin, and wishing he could nurse from her. Remembers the feeling of her hard nipple as he rolled it between his tongue and the corner of his lip, the lush wetness of her as he slid his hand into her panties. 

He’d fucked her hard, that night. Bent her over the mattress, ripped a hole in her tights, and slid his cock in next to her panties, which he’d pushed to the side. He’d coiled her hair around his fist and used the force of it to control her movements, grabbing a handful of the ample flesh of her ass with his other hand.  
The friction of his hand isn’t enough- he’s fully hard but unsatisfied. Without analyzing it, he decides to fold his pillow into a tight little crease. Eases himself into it, bears his weight down on the bed, and feels the compression around his cock. His balls draw up, swollen with the force of his lust. He places one hand on the headboard and puts the other in his mouth to stifle any noises. 

He’s fucking Molly hard and fast, can feel how her wetness is pooling around the base of the condom and is smeared around her silken lips. His toes are curling in his shoes, he can feel his balls slapping against her ass, can smell the heady scent of her arousal. He starts hitting a spot deep inside her, and she begins to beg. Right there! More! Harder! Please don’t stop! He doubles the motion, fucking as fast as he can, slamming home with a slick rush. She comes, screaming YES, WILL, YES and he keeps going, taking his pleasure. He can feel it building, feels the fizz of it coil up the back of his legs, through his crack and balls, in his stomach. And, just as he lets go, she looks back at him. 

Except its Hannibal spread like a feast before him. Hannibal, who is slack-jawed and teary-eyed, staring at him and licking his lips in lust. Hannibal, whose wet pussy is squelching around Will’s cock and tightening around him. Hannibal, who blinks at him with wide eyes, and arches his back, tilting Will’s cock inside his cunt so that it provides just the right amount of friction against the underside of his head. And when he comes, it’s Hannibal who begs him to fill him up. 

Will wrenches his dick out of the pillow as quickly as possible, turns onto his side and gasps with the force of his orgasm. 

“What the fuck,” he whispers into the unforgiving darkness. 

_________________________________________________________________________ 

Will wakes up to a knock at his door. For a moment, everything tilts and he forgets where he is. Forgets who he is. He’s just comfortable, warm, and content, wrapped in soft sheets and chasing the faint impression of a good dream. 

“Will? It’s nearly noon, are you alright?” 

The illusion is shattered by the voice. Unique, with flat vowels and lilting consonants. Soothing and soft, with the slightest rasp. A voice he’s heard both waking and dreaming, a voice that’s shaped his own thoughts and echoed against the back of his skull. 

He jolts upright, scraping a hand down his face. Notices, with a blush, that he’s naked. He yanks the sheet up to his chin, terrified that Hannibal will whip open the door and…. And what? Hannibal’s seen him naked before- after Muskrat farm, definitely saw all of Will during their recovery from the Fall when they shared the cabin of a tiny boat as they made their way down to Cuba… 

Hannibal edges the door open a crack, probably because Will has spent the last minute figuring out how many times Hannibal has seen his dick instead of responding. 

“Will?” 

Hannibal’s nostrils flare, slightly. He looks at the crumpled pillowcase sitting in an incriminating lump at the base of the bed and then takes in Will’s state of disarray and embarrassment. 

“Shit. I’m fine, I’ll be right down.” 

Hannibal nods, snicking the door shut behind him. 

Will flops back onto the mattress with his hands shoved over his face, mortified. Gets up, hearing his back pop and feeling the familiar ache of his shoulder, stabbed twice and aching all the way through. 

He showers in his en suite, studiously avoiding his reflection. Puts on some light pants and a soft shirt, lamenting the fact that they weren’t picked out by Hannibal. Trudges downstairs, feeling much more well-rested than he thinks he should be, based on his earlier insomnia. 

He finds Hannibal in the kitchen, preparing a marinade for their dinner. Hannibal gives him a small smile and pushes a plated croissant and a cup of coffee toward’s Will’s usual spot at the breakfast bar. 

“You look well-rested.” 

Will chuckles into his croissant and then promptly moans at its flaky perfection. 

“Jesus, Hannibal. This is fantastic.” 

Hannibal preens, revealing all of his wickedly curved teeth. 

“The key to the perfect croissant is fresh milk. Unlike its cousin, puff pastry, croissant dough contains both yeast and milk. And while the lamination of the dough creates its signature layers, the heart of the croissant is in its savory taste. Without fresh milk, the butter takes precedence on the palate and can become cloying.” 

Will thinks he could probably listen to Hannibal make love to French pastry techniques for the rest of his life if he could get some more croissants out of it. He expresses the sentiment in a slightly more polite way and coaxes an amused hum from Hannibal, who has finished putting away the marinade. 

“Luckily for you, I had the foresight to make a dozen. And, while your good mood lasts, I would like to discuss the new terms of our therapy.” 

Will’s brows mutinously betray his dismay at the concept. 

“Is this what you wanted to talk about last night?” 

Hannibal nods, walking through to the sitting room and picking up a notebook and pen before joining Will at the island again. 

“Yes. I think it would be helpful for us to establish some norms before we traverse the minefield of your psyche; particularly since I have done irreparable damage to your trust.” 

Will sits back, arms crossed over his front. Raises his brows to indicate that Hannibal has the floor. 

“I propose that we have a designated space and time for our conversations. I was thinking of the evening, after dinner? At the table?” 

Will nods his assent, and Hannibal writes that down. 

“Excellent.” 

Will gestures to the paper and asks, 

“Why are you bothering with that? We are both blessed with frighteningly accurate memories.” 

Hannibal sniffs, before saying, 

“In an effort to rebuild your trust, I was hoping to draw up a contract.” 

“To give me the illusion of consent?” 

Hannibal’s face darkens and he clutches the pen marginally tighter. 

“I am not one to take things by force, Will. You always have a choice.” 

Will laughs bitterly at that, not addressing how his only choice is to abide by Hannibal or be consumed by him.

They lapse into a somewhat tense silence, before Will finally aks, 

“And what else?”

Hannibal heaves a long-suffering sigh and says, 

“...and that you allow me to use some unconventional techniques.” 

“Such as?” 

Hannibal licks his lips. 

“Hypnosis. Psychotherapy. Attack therapy. Primal therapy.” 

Will barks out a harsh laugh. 

“So you want to get me high and scream at me?” 

“I want to free you from your moral tether. Society taught you to place a ring of salt around your imagination; to corral its power like a tamed horse. Tell me, Will, are you afraid of what might happen if you loosen your grip?” 

Will swallows, nods. 

“I already know what happens. You saw it; Garrett Jacob Hobbs. My entire grip on reality shifted because of that loss of control; you really want me to exist in that state again?” 

“I want to prove to you that you can embrace your power without losing yourself. That you can harness it and glut yourself on it.” 

A shiver works its way down Will’s spine. The tone of the room has changed; the humidity of the Cuban spring has become bottled up in the kitchen and become stifling. Will, for the first time in two months, feels the cold grip of fear around his heart. 

“Alright,” he says, although it feels like Hannibal is a marionetteer pulling the string that makes his jaw flap in acceptance. 

Hannibal’s smile is a brushfire; slow, lazy, and all-consuming. 

“But I want our conversations to go two-ways. Quid pro quo. And I want honesty- no omissions, euphemisms, or deflections. If I sense you’re lying then you don’t get to play with my brain anymore.” 

Hannibal straightens, making no effort to mask his intrigue. 

“Very well.” 

They sit in silence, Will nursing his coffee, and waiting for Hannibal to get to the real reason this conversation has been orchestrated. 

“There’s one more thing I’d like to suggest.” 

“Yes?” 

Hannibal’s mouth is pulled downwards in both thought and discord. 

“I think you should pursue an outlet for your sexual urges. As part of your therapy.” 

“An outlet?!” 

Hannibal’s resulting sigh of frustration doesn’t seem as manufactured as most of his gesticulations. 

“Don’t be obtuse, Will. You’re a cunning boy and hands and pillows will only suffice for so long. What you need is a warm body.” 

“What, are you volunteering?” 

Hannibal parts his lips, those same lips that have consumed dozens of people, that have kissed and licked living and dead flesh, that have whispered beautiful sins into Will’s chrysalis. 

“No. When and if you come to my bed, it will not be for an experiment. And I won’t let you go. I’m proposing quite the opposite; some good, old-fashioned casual sex.” 

Everything inside of Will’s mind tilts at the way “casual sex” is framed by Hannibal’s wicked teeth, slick lips, and symphonic accent. 

“Hannibal… I don’t do casual sex.” 

Neither of them addresses the fact that Will has a much better excuse for his reluctance. Out of habit, Will begins to fiddle with the finger that once held his wedding ring. 

Hannibal leans close, as beautiful and terrifying as Blake's dragon. 

“I’m proposing that we remedy that.”


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: brief suicidal ideation

After their discussion, they spend most of the day apart. Hannibal retreats to his room, presumably to draw up the contract. The house feels too small, too confining, too homey. It serves as a constant reminder of the cabin. He wonders what they’re doing now; if Molly is mourning him as she did her prior husband or if she’s hoping he’ll walk through the door. Thinks about the dogs, sleeping on his side of the bed and waiting for him on the porch. In an act of desperation, Will decides to explore the beach and changes into some trunks before setting out. 

It’s late afternoon, and even though it’s only spring, the heat is so stifling that he decides to walk in the shallows to help cool off. He has yet to wander very far from their home. Hannibal’s taken the Jeep into nearby Matanzas a few times to procure groceries from the local farmer’s market, but, in an effort to keep their cover, they both agreed that it would be best for them to go into the city separately. Will hasn’t much desired to go, largely because going will solidify the last two months as real. Up until this point, Will has taken comfort in the idea that he might be in some kind of demented purgatory with Hannibal. But, after their conversation, it’s become apparent that they are not the only two people in the world. 

Will pauses, overwhelmed. Stares out at the bleached horizon, watches the distance shimmer in the heat. Feels the relentless suck of the tide sink his feet into the sand as it withdraws, pulling small rocks and shells past his ankles before spitting them back. In many ways, his connection to Hannibal reminds him of the tide. It’s forceful, almost violent, the way that it pulls him in. This time, it feels like they’re trapped in an eternal low tide. All sucking intensity, no give. He wonders if it feels the same to Hannibal. 

What would casual sex even look like? The few women Will’s fallen into bed with he’d already been half in love with. And, while those relationships never lasted for long, they were undeniably romantic. Every crush Will’s ever had has started as an appreciation of intellect and developed into something more amorous over time; he can’t think of the last time he looked at a woman for her body. Even the porn he likes to watch is amateur stuff made by established couples; it’s the only thing that will do for his empathy. The regular stuff is too obviously fake to even be attractive to him. 

As he ponders this, and the greater machinations behind Hannibal’s suggestion, he considers wading out into the sea and letting the waves take him. Finishing the fall, sinking into nothingness. Remaining faithful to his marriage and severing his tie to Hannibal for forever. Joining Abigail in their stream. He thinks of The Awakening, of the personification of the sea’s voice as, “...seductive, never ceasing, whispering, clamoring, murmuring, inviting the soul to wander in abysses of solitude.” Remembers how, during his stay in the BHCI, his thoughts echoed in Hannibal’s voice as surely as the sound of the waves breaking. He’s so tired. So fatigued from fighting the riptide of his identity, from the ceaseless chess of his relationship with Hannibal, from fleeing his imagination. 

He shakes his head, laughing scornfully at his own self-pity. Feels the dark thing that lurks in the corner of his brain chuckle and whisper in Hannibal’s voice, “Nobody said life was fair. And don’t you want to beat him at his own game? Aren’t you curious about what you could become?” 

To avoid answering the voice, Will continues ambling down the beach, and once he’s walked about a mile or so, stumbles upon a little cove. There’s a large rock that cuts through the sandy line of the coast, and to surpass it, one would need to swim pretty far out to continue onwards. Interesting. So, if Jack ever comes for them, they won’t be able to arrive from the left side of the beach and swarm the back. Curious, Will promptly turns around and walks in the opposite direction, trying to determine if law enforcement would face any barriers from the right. 

For the first time in months, he feels his old profiling instincts flare. As he walks, instead of getting lulled by the ocean, he trains his eyes on the dunes and jungle beyond. Looks for any abnormalities- any signs of buildings or access roads that may go undetected to the untrained eye. As far as he can tell, the surrounding area is desolate. He remembers from their journey that the house is down a mile-long dirt path through the jungle, hidden from the main road. Perhaps there are other homes and buildings closer to the road, but theirs seems to be the only one this close to the beach. 

As he strides past the house he sees one of Hannibal’s bedroom curtains flicker. He rolls his eyes at it, rebelling against Hannibal’s possessiveness and continuing onward. He wipes some sweat from his brow as he continues slogging through the shallows, determined to case the perimeter. About a half-mile from the house, the sea meets the mouth of a sizable stream, surrounded by jungle on all sides. As he squints past it, he sees an empty beach and jungle on the other side. Satisfied, he heads back to the house. 

“Exploring?” Hannibal asks casually when he enters, sitting at the kitchen table and seemingly engrossed in a sketch. 

Will stands there, somewhat sheepishly, bare-chested and in his swimming trunks. The kitchen doors are thrown open to let in the ocean breeze, and he props his hip against the jamb self-consciously. He was hoping Hannibal was still lurking in his bedroom so that he could hold his head under the tap and guzzle some water. He’s half tempted to do it any way but doesn’t want to shove his somewhat damp ass in Hannibal’s face. What would Hannibal do if he did that? Ignore it and maintain his dignified repose? Make a sardonic joke? Stare hungrily? Wax poetic about the juiciness of a good rump?

“Will?”

He snaps his head up, flushing. 

“Yeah, sorry. I got a bit lost in thought.” 

Hannibal nods, setting down his charcoal expectantly. 

“Is there a reason you’re standing in the doorway like Eurydice at the edge of Hades? Not that I mind the view.” 

Hannibal punctuates the end of his sentence with a heated gaze and a slow-pan of Will’s body. His eyes inventory the still-purple scar to the left of his collarbone where the Dragon’s dagger pierced him with clinical concern before staring at the crooked smile and the dark trail of hair beneath his navel. 

Will scowls, crossing his arms over his chest and suppressing his urge to run back down to the beach. Hannibal’s blatant hunger for him at this moment is a valuable opportunity to exploit his weakness, and so he digs his heels in and takes a deep breath. 

“Exactly how isolated are we?” 

Hannibal’s eyes feast on his face. 

“Quite. We are the only residence within three square miles, give or take. Why? Thinking of running?” 

Will quirks his brow in a way that he knows Hannibal loves. 

“What would be the point? I know you’d catch me.” 

Hannibal grins, proud and aroused. 

“There’s no need to feed my ego, dear Will. But, more to the point, there’s no need to underestimate yourself. After what you did to the Dragon, I think if you really wanted to, you could evade me for quite some time.” 

Will huffs a sarcastic little sound at that, briefly forgetting his seductive plans and rubbing the back of his neck self-consciously. 

“Very funny. Anyways, you said there aren’t any residences around here; what about buildings or maintenance sites? We’ve got plumbing and electricity so there’s got to be something around.” 

Hannibal tilts his head slightly, almost like a dog when it questions what it’s hearing. 

“There’s a generator in the basement, and I believe the septic tank was assessed ten years ago by an independent company. It’s all in the notes on the property, which I can fetch for you if you’d like. As far as I know, the closest building is a cattle farm across the road from us. The forest is protected, as it is one of the last-known nesting grounds of the endangered Black-Tailed Hutia.” 

Will nods, relieved that access won’t be easy for law enforcement. They’d either have to cut through the jungle or come upon the beach by boat if they wanted to avoid the main road. But, it also means that escape, should they be discovered, is equally challenging.

“Mind if I take a look at the generator? I’ve been itching for a good tinkering.” 

“You don’t need to ask. This home is just as much mine as it is yours.” 

Will hums in consideration, wishing he’d had the foresight to bring his glasses with him so that he could dodge Hannibal’s gaze with their frames. 

“Hardly. I’m not paying the bills.” 

Hannibal stands and gets Will a glass of water. Chucks him on the chin like a disobedient child. 

“Does our discrepancy in wealth bother you? I haven’t thought about something as mundane as “paying the bills” for quite some time.” 

Will wrinkles his nose at the fatherly tone but eagerly gulps the water. 

“Thanks. And, yes, if I’m honest. In some ways, it makes me feel like a social experiment for you. Like, “look at poor Will, he’s only ever worn polyester and thinks good aftershave has a ship on the bottle, how quaint.” 

Hannibal sighs, somewhat forlorn. 

“I won’t lie- I find your scruffiness quite interesting. However, it has nothing to do with your affluence- I could care less about how much money you have. No, I find your taste for polyester and terrible aftershave intriguing because of how Spartan it is. In all the time I’ve known you, I’ve never seen you indulge. Why do you think that is?” 

“Isn’t it a little early for psychoanalysis, Doctor? I thought we were saving our hour for after dinner?” 

“Humor me. Come sit.” 

“I’m all wet. I need to take a shower; get the sand off me.” 

“I’m sure the chair will survive a bit of dampness. You can shower after you’ve answered my question.” 

Will rolls his eyes and heaves a long-suffering sigh. Internally, he smiles. He’s getting somewhere by playing Hannibal’s game; the lure of his body is drawing him in. 

He strides over to the table, and in a typical act of defiance, takes Hannibal’s old seat. Genuinely flushes when he realizes Hannibal was sketching him as some kind of classical figure. Hannibal follows, silently gliding into the opposite chair and folding his hands in concentration. 

“Fine, but only if you answer one of mine.” 

“An eye for an eye.” 

“If you say so. Anyway, I know that you probably want me to think that I’m so “Spartan” because I deny myself pleasure as a form of punishment. And maybe you’re right. Or maybe I’m just not a hedonist.” 

Hannibal’s lip quirks up at Will’s rudeness in a supremely annoying fashion. 

“Guilty as charged. Tell me, Will, what’s the most expensive thing you’ve ever bought? Was it the engagement ring?” 

An intense wave of nausea hits Will at the reminder of before. He quickly takes another sip of water to quell it, picking at a mosquito bite on his thigh under the table to conceal his agitation. 

“You know, if I didn’t know better, I’d almost think you’re jealous of her. Why do you always turn our conversations back to my marriage? And don’t spout all of that “I want to know everything about you” crap.” 

Hannibal’s eye twitches in annoyance. 

“I asked first.” 

Will puffs out a harsh breath, inadvertently blowing one of his curls with the force of it. 

“Fine. I bought my dad a houseboat before I moved up North. I’d saved up a good chunk of my Homicide salary to do it; dropped about 20 grand for the damn thing. Shouldn’t have even bothered- he died six months later.” 

Hannibal doesn’t bother nodding sympathetically or indicating that he feels sorry for Will. Instead, he leans further forward, trying to catch Will with the dark hooks of his eyes. 

“Surely your home in Wolf Trap must have cost more than a meager houseboat? And yet why was the houseboat your instinctive answer?” 

“Because it wasn’t a necessity.” 

“And a two-bedroom home with multiple acres was?” 

Will bares his teeth in a cross between a grimace and a smile. 

“Yes,” he hisses. 

“Why?” 

“You know why.” 

“Your boat on the sea. How interesting, that your connection to the sea transcends most of your living arrangements. Did you view your home in Maine as a ship?” 

“Hold on- my turn.” 

Hannibal sighs and leans back, causing the chair to creak slightly. The last two months have helped to restore some of his original bulk, but he’s still somewhat gaunt compared to his prior self. 

“There are many reasons why your marriage interests me. For one, it is a chapter of your life that has been closed to me; I know hardly anything about what you did during those years. And yet, you know almost everything I did during that time. Hardly seems fair.” 

Will feels his face darken. 

“Let’s not discuss “fairness.” 

Hannibal licks his lips, the slip of his tongue peeping between their plush folds in a subtly distracting way. 

“But isn’t fairness what you believe in? What you’ve spent your life’s work fighting for? Justice?” 

Hannibal’s nostrils flare at the same moment Will realizes he’s picked the bite to the point of bleeding. 

“If you want to keep talking, I suggest you get back to the point,” Will warns. 

Hannibal shrugs good-naturedly and crosses one of his legs over the other. 

“You accused me of jealousy, which is an emotion I’m not familiar with. There has never been a moment in my adult life where I couldn’t get what I wanted. I’ve often felt disdain for my covetous patients; but, perhaps, I am guilty of the same sin. If what I feel for your wife is jealousy, then I feel it for everyone who consumes your attention- Jack, Alana, even your dogs.” 

Will is surprised by the frankness of Hannibal’s statement. 

“And yet you haven’t asked about any of them.” 

“You aren’t mourning them.” 

Will wants to snap back that of course, he is, except he’s not.

“I miss the dogs.” 

Hannibal flashes his toothsome grin before nodding. 

“Of course you do. However, I don’t think I can compete with them, therefore I haven’t felt the need to ask.” 

Begrudgingly, Will chuckles through the heartache the thought of Winston brings up. 

“There’s something you’re avoiding. What are you trying to hide?” 

Hannibal closes his eyes as if he’s savoring a perfect aria. A sucking sort of silence descends for a few moments before he opens his eyes and says, 

“Forgive me, Will. I sometimes forget that obfuscations are pointless in your presence, particularly after these years apart. I confess I’m mostly fascinated by your marriage because I can’t fathom it. To settle for one partner, for the rest of your life? I’ve hardly been with someone for more than a few months, and while the romanticism of the idea is quite appealing, I find it somewhat distasteful. I wonder what it’s like, to be on the receiving end of such devotion.” 

Will swallows, momentarily lost in the swelling tides of his emotions. Hannibal’s loneliness, always a festering wound concealed behind heavy bandages, causes a phantom ache in his own body. 

“If it makes you feel better, my three-year marriage was the longest relationship I’ve ever been in. Most of my prior girlfriends ran for the hills when they realized how hefty my baggage was.” 

Hannibal leans forward, resting his elbows on the table. 

“Yet another moment where we are like the Roman Janus- identical but entirely opposed. All of my “relationships” have been brief by my own design, while all of yours were fleeting without your consent.” 

Will, despite himself, is incredibly interested in Hannibal’s romantic past. He leans forward, consciously mirroring Hannibal’s position. 

“Bedelia once referred to me as Bluebeard’s last wife. I’d like to know more about my predecessors.” 

Hannibal grins, clearly pleased by Bedelia’s choice of allusion and by Will’s unabashed interest. 

“Why? If I am to be Bluebeard, then you are the last of my wives. And isn’t she the one who conquers the fearsome monster? Who, like Pandora with her box, flings open the closet and unleashes the skeletons? Wasn’t is she who escaped the blow of Bluebeard’s sword with her own cunning?” 

Will leans forward, catching Hannibal's gaze. 

“And wasn’t she the one who killed him?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow! Thank you everyone for your thoughtful comments-they’ve really fueled my passion for this piece and have helped me to deepen my characterizations. I’ve been working on the outline of this fic, accounting for sub-plots and a decent denouement. As such, I’m guessing it will be somewhere between 25-30 chapters long, give or take. Hopefully, you’ll all stick around for the ride- shit’s about to start getting crazy! ;) Also, you can find the original Bluebeard myth here: https://www.pitt.edu/~dash/perrault03.html


	12. Chapter 12

“It’s tough to hold onto anything good- it’s all so slippery.”

Those were the last words he’d ever heard Molly speak. How fitting. 

In the outdoor shower, Will can’t help but picture how fragile she’d looked the last time he saw her. Molly’s personality, usually so warm and inviting, quieted by swathes of the cheap white hospital linen and the persistent tattoo of her heart monitor. That image of her had, like a specter, haunted and consumed Will during the final hunt for the Dragon. Some latent alpha male instinct had been aroused by his need to protect her; a drive he’d thought he’d buried with Abigail. Sometimes, he wonders if he would have had the strength to kill Dollarhyde if he hadn’t gone for his family. Will’s not sure if there’s a good answer to that question. 

He sighs, rotating his shoulder, wishing he hadn’t skipped physical therapy today. Dimly, he wonders if Molly’s scars have healed by now. Swallows the guilt that the thought of them inspires. The more he thinks about her, the farther away she feels. As if those years in Maine were lived decades ago, not months. He hopes, for her sake, that she feels the same. 

As he finishes up, he wonders what his mother would say about his marriage. It’s rare for him to think of her, and rarer still for him to pine for her. She’d left when he was about six and died by the time he hit puberty. He sighs, irritated by Hannibal’s ability to slither in his ear and infect his brain with maudlin thoughts like a flesh-eating amoeba. 

Toweling off, he hears a branch snap. Then, the crunching of rocks under heavy footsteps. He quells his instinct to call out to Hannibal and instead tenses his whole body, straining towards the sound. Slowly, he presses his eye to the crack between two of the wooden panels that make up the perimeter of the shower and holds his breath, cursing his vulnerability in this position. He can make out a dark figure just at the treeline, where the gravel meets the trees. Quickly, before he can question it, he wrenches open the door and darts toward it, naked as the day he was born. 

He can hardly hear over the gasping of his breath and the clamor of his bare feet against the stones; his adrenaline-spiked pulse seems to fill every beat of silence between the breaks of the waves. As he approaches the treeline, the figure disappears. The only thing that makes him stop is the faint impression of antlers it leaves behind. Unfortunately, he has little friction to slow the momentum of his heaving body, and although his feet are frozen his body throws him forward onto the unforgiving rocks. 

He lies there for a moment, momentarily deaf from the white noise of his pulse. The fall punches the air out of his lungs with such force that it physically hurts to suck in his next breath- as if the lingering salt of the sea air is stinging hundreds of tiny cuts inside his chest as it goes down. He’s startled by a heavy hand on his back and wildly thrashes to face the figure, flipping over with a sense of desperation. Feels his recently-gained breath get knocked out all over again when he realizes it’s Hannibal. 

“Will, are you alright? I saw you running from the window. What’s happened?” 

The shame and adrenaline of the moment have choked the words from him. He raises a shaky hand and points to the treeline as he fights to get them back. Hannibal’s face sharpens. 

“Did you see someone?” 

Will coughs into his elbow, panting slightly afterward. Dimly, he realizes he’s cut his face as a strong stream of blood cuts its way down his neck. He nods, blinking back tears from the pain of the fall and the stress of the moment. 

Hannibal reaches a hand down to him and helps him get up, much like that night months ago. 

The familiarity of the moment makes Will dizzy with deja vu, as he smells his own blood and can’t quite catch his breath from the excitement of the hunt. He sways slightly, wincing at the cuts on his feet as they grind into the gravel. Hannibal flashes him a sharp grin before whipping his head back to the treeline and taking off in a surprisingly fast run. It’s only then that Will sees the glint of a knife flashing in Hannibal’s hand. 

He staggers behind, still winded and half-deaf. His heart beats as wildly as it had done on the afternoon when he saw it leap out of his chest. As he approaches the edge of the forest, he stoops to pick up a moderately-sized rock. It’s hot as an ember, having baked in the sun for the entire afternoon, but it’s heavy without being too hard to throw. 

There’s too much adrenaline in Will’s system for him to notice any pain as he breaks into a jog. He scans the edge of the forest, looking for a sign of Hannibal or the other. He ducks behind a tree, straining to hear anything suspicious over the sound of the trees creaking in the sea breeze. Hannibal has seemingly disappeared into the depths of the jungle, and though Will aches to follow, he knows that it would be best for him to stay at the edge to capture the intruder should Hannibal successfully flush them out.

He paces the edge, feeling his muscles tense and relax a thousand times over. 

Enough time passes for the sun to cast lengthening shadows across the forest, enough time that Will begins to consider hacking through the brush to find Hannibal. Enough time for Will to be gripped by an entirely new fear- that what he saw and heard wasn’t real. Desperately, he tries to remember if he saw antlers or if they were jagged branches framing a head. The heat and adrenaline coupled with the poor visibility from the crack make it hard for him to say for sure. 

“Will?” 

Will whips around, startled by Hannibal’s silent approach. His hair is askew, clearly knocked around by the low-hanging vegetation. Hannibal has sweat stains trickling down from his armpits to his hips and across his belly from the sweltering heat. Hannibal reaches out a hand to steady him, and it is only when he feels flesh on flesh that Will remembers that he’s naked. 

He flinches from the touch, immediately trying to cover his modesty. 

“Did you find anything?” 

Hannibal shakes his head and gestures towards the house. 

“Unfortunately, I saw no signs that anyone was there. Why don’t you come into the house and get cleaned up? I think we’re both in need of a shower and a refreshing meal.” 

Will swallows, still reluctant to leave the treeline. Hannibal places both hands on his face and cups it with an unfamiliar amount of tenderness. 

“Will. I would not leave this area if I thought there was any threat to our safety. I want to get you cool and hydrated before we discuss what I think you saw. I know that I have fractured our trust; but please have faith that I have no intention to see the inside of a cell ever again. Now, come to the house.” 

Will feels a horribly embarrassing stinging in his eyes and quickly blinks in an attempt to hide it. Self-loathing, his most faithful partner, shrouds him in embarrassment. He wonders what Molly would think if she saw him now- naked, bleeding, on the verge of tears and being led into the house like a frightened animal by a man ten years his senior. 

Halfway there, he realizes he’s still holding the rock. For a moment, he imagines using it. His pendulum swings and he sees himself, naked and bloody as Lucifer fresh from his fall, thrashing through the undergrowth with the subtlety of a boar. None of Hannibal’s feline silence or patience- no, Will would barrel towards his target at full speed. He pictures wrestling a faceless dark form to the ground, gnashing his teeth and snarling as he uses his weight to pin them. Sees the rock, still hot, clenched in a white-knuckled hand before being smashed into a face. A hot spray of blood splashes across him, his face twisted into a crazed grin as he lifts the rock again. Feels the wetness of brains spatter the undergrowth. Over and over, the crunch of cartilage and bone, the slick heat of blood coating his arms and chest, the wet squelches, and sucking moans of a life ending. He pictures leaning over the body, staring into the crater of a face that would be left, and spitting on it. 

He doesn’t realize he’s lost time until he opens his eyes and realizes he’s in the shower. To his mortification, Hannibal is there with him; fully clothed and pressed up against his back. 

“Welcome back. Would you like me to step out so you can have some privacy? I’ll be just on the other side.” 

Will nods yes, too exhausted to speak. Hannibal gives him a final glance before closing the door of the outdoor shower and settling down on the little bench they have just outside. Will sags against the damp wood, takes a few grounding breaths. 

“My name is Will Graham. I’m in Matanzas, Cuba.” 

Will repeats the phrase until the water runs clear and then shuts off the faucet. Picks up his forgotten towel and slings it around his hips. Rubs his hand over his face in an effort to clear his mind before opening the door and facing Hannibal. When he emerges, Hannibal is perched on the bench, a leg crossed over his knee, seemingly glacial; however, Will sees the tightness at the corners of his mouth. 

“You look much better. Are you feeling stable enough for me to take my leave? I’ve laid out some clothes for you in the sitting room; I think it would be best for you to avoid the stairs while I shower.” 

Will’s laugh is loaded with self-deprecation. 

“Sure. Can’t have me fall down the stairs when I see another stag and convince myself the FBI is knocking.” 

Hannibal claps a firm hand on his shoulder. 

“Will. There is no need to be embarrassed; you have never looked more beautiful to me than you did today; blood-spattered and wrathful.” 

Will licks his lips, aware of the weight on his shoulder and of his bareness beneath the towel. He rankles at the praise because he can read between the lines- Hannibal has always preferred him to be touched by madness. He only looked beautiful to him because of how deranged he was. 

“You’ll give me a big head if you keep it up. Soon I’ll be lounging around nude and covered in ketchup,” Will deflects. 

Hannibal’s eyes sparkle with mirth. He lets out a short laugh before removing his hand, satisfied that Will isn’t going to run out of the house and fall again. 

“You’d hear no complaints from me; I’ve been dying to get you nude for a sketch. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I really must shower. I’ll be back in a moment. Knock if you need.” 

Will nods, feeling somewhat more grounded by the humor. Even though he knows Hannibal wasn’t really joking. 

He waits to hear Hannibal’s door shut before changing into the clothes Hannibal left out; no underwear again. He wonders if Hannibal wears any. Probably not- they’d ruin the lines of his suits. For a moment, he briefly entertains the idea of Hannibal in a thong before he realizes that it makes his cock throb. 

“Jesus Christ, get it together,” he mutters to himself. 

He lies down on the couch, intending to only close his eyes for a moment while he waits for Hannibal. 

Will wakes, aware that more time has passed than he intended- the room is dark. He sits up carefully, feeling the ache of his earlier fall coupled with his recovery from the Dragon. When he lets out a soft groan he hears the clatter of Hannibal in the kitchen stop abruptly. A moment later and he’s there in the doorway, filling it up with his broad shoulders and looming elegance. 

“Jesus, you’re worse than a nanny. I’m fine! Just sore.” 

Hannibal nods, maintaining his silence. Waits for Will to rise and limp towards the kitchen before turning around, satisfied that Will will move to where he can keep an eye on him. 

“Can I help?” 

“Alas, I am almost finished with our supper. Perhaps you could set the table? We’ll each need spoons.” 

“Sure thing. Wine?” 

Hannibal smiles, clearly pleased by Will’s ability to anticipate his culinary desires. 

“Of course. I was thinking a Riesling?” 

“All Whites taste the same to me; sounds good.” 

They fall into easy domesticity as both finish their tasks. Will is still limping slightly, and the cut on his face is itching, but otherwise, he feels very at peace. The elasticity of his emotions frightens him- how could he have been clenching a rock in his fist with the intention to kill just a few hours earlier? He shudders, pouring the wine into his glass and plopping into his usual seat gracelessly. 

“Excellent timing, dear Will,” Hannibal exclaims as he brings two bowls over to the table, setting each in front of their seats with a pleased hum. 

“I thought something refreshing was in order after the excitement of earlier- we have Smoky Salmorejo to start; Gazpacho’s lesser-known cousin. Served with a garnish of green grapes and slivered almonds, with fresh Ciabatta on the side.” 

Will smiles against his will; it can be so hard to resist Hannibal’s charm, particularly when he’s discussing his passions. And although Will would never make cold soup with almonds and grapes for himself, he’s sure that the flavors will impress. As if on cue, his stomach growls. 

Will digs in and flushes with pleasure at the complexity of the dish. He looks up at Hannibal through his eyelashes and makes a tiny moan of gratification. Hannibal’s eyes flash. 

“It’s delicious. Thank you.” 

Hannibal’s eyes crease in a fond way. 

“You’re most welcome.” 

They eat in peace for a few moments, taking turns slicing themselves pieces of bread to dip in their soup. It reminds Will of dinners with Molly and Wally- how they’d sit crowded around the table and take turns passing the various steaming dishes around. But it also reminds him of how loud those dinners were- full of strained laughter at his feeble attempts at dad jokes, full of Molly’s gentle reprimands to the dogs (and sometimes to Will,) full of the clattering of forks and spoons and the general din of a happy family.

At this moment, he’s grateful for the silence. But it doesn’t last; like Molly’d said, nothing good ever does. As Hannibal rises to take their bowls and retrieve the next course, he says, 

“I hate to disrupt the peace, but there’s something I’d like to discuss before our session tonight.” 

Will makes no attempt to conceal his eye roll, good-natured though it is. 

“You have the floor.” 

“Excellent,” Hannibal says, flicking on the kettle, which strikes Will as odd since it is easily 80 degrees in the house at the moment, even with the sea breeze and the darkness. 

He arrives back at the table with two plates, artfully arranged with pale green slices of melon, marbled prosciutto, and peas. As always, he places Will’s plate first. 

“A prosciutto-melon salad with a lemon vinaigrette and feta. I’ll be back in a moment, feel free to start without me.” 

Will nods, already halfway through his first bite. The excitement of earlier has opened a gaping maw of hunger in the pit of his belly and Hannibal’s food is far too delicious to resist. Hannibal returns a moment later, carrying a packet of something and a sheet of paper. He places the paper on the table and brings the packet over to the counter, setting it beside the hot kettle. 

“I’ve drawn up a contract for our therapy. As I said earlier, I think it would benefit us both greatly for your consent to my unorthodox practices to be both written and verbal. Please look it over carefully before signing.” 

Will picks up the paper, a thick cardstock, and admires Hannibal’s elegant script. It’s very basic- they will meet for one hour of therapy daily, after dinner, at the kitchen table unless otherwise required. Will gives his consent to psychoanalysis and experimental primal therapy and attack therapy, as well as hypnosis and the occasional use of psychedelics. Hannibal also reserves the right to record their sessions, particularly ones in which Will may enter an altered state of consciousness. 

Will adjusts his glasses, projecting mock-nervousness. Scrapes his hand against his jaw as he watches Hannibal spear a slice of melon and raise it, dripping, to his lush mouth. 

“Seems fine. Although, you didn’t mention anything about my request. Quid pro quo,” Will says, raising his brows in indignation and settling further back in his seat with his arms crossed defensively. 

Hannibal grins and sets down his fork to look over the contract. 

“Right you are; let me add it in.” 

Will watches him carefully add another line and then takes the paper to look it over. He nods, passing it back. 

“Looks good. Did you, um, change your mind about what you suggested the other day?” 

Hannibal smirks, delighting in his own wickedness. 

“We’ve discussed a great many things recently. You’ll have to be more specific.” 

Will glowers at him and shoves a piece of melon-wrapped prosciutto into his mouth viscously in revenge. He chews slowly, still scowling. 

“Oh, I don’t know, maybe the fact that you tried to prescribe me a casual fuck?”

Hannibal chuckles. 

“Ah yes… that. It was, as you said, a suggestion. Not an actual therapeutic technique that should need to be outlined in the contract. But, if you would like, I could add the clause about bringing partners back to the house?” 

Will nods, still trying to feign anxiety but starting to feel the real emotion curdle in his belly. He doesn’t want to think about what he’d do if Hannibal fucked someone in the house; doesn’t want to think about why he doesn’t want to think about it. 

“Excellent. Tell me, Will, why are you so keen to let me poke around in the halls of your mind? You’ve always resisted psychological probing.” 

Will swallows the last of his salad and pushes the plate away. 

“I saw Bedelia, you know. In a therapeutic capacity.” 

Hannibal’s face gives nothing away. 

“Yes, I’d assumed so. There were elements of her in you when we spoke through the plexiglass of my cell. She’s a very good psychiatrist- did you find her helpful?” 

“In a way.” 

Hannibal smiles, ducking his head as he cuts his final bite. 

“To be a fly on the wall during your sessions… Tell me, Will, did she speak fondly of me?” 

Will returns his stare, cataloging Hannibal’s interest. Perhaps his feelings for Bedelia were not an act. 

“Why her?” 

Hannibal doesn’t question to what he’s referring, simply collects their plates and deposits them in the sink. 

“Is this the beginning of our hour?” 

Will clenches his fist in irritation. 

“If it needs to be to get a straight answer, then I guess it is.” 

Hannibal nods and checks his watch. He pulls out a teacup and holds it for a moment. Will remembers what he said once, about smashing teacups to see if they’d gather together again. Privately, he thinks Mischa is Hannibal’s teacup- the shattered memory of her glued back together with gold. More care in the preservation of her than in the moments shared with her. 

As Hannibal opens the mystery packet, he responds, 

“Because she was the only other person who saw me without my permission. Granted, she didn’t see as deeply as you did, but she knew me. I didn’t recognize the importance of such things until I met you.” 

Hannibal shakes something out of the packet and puts it in a loose-leaf tea holder. Then pours the hot water from the kettle over it and looks at his watch again. 

“That can’t be true; Lady Murasaki saw you. Chiyoh saw you.” 

Hannibal’s lip curls in distaste. 

“Lady Muraski is dead. And I allowed Chiyoh to see me, but she would have been as blind as Alana if I hadn’t.” 

Will files away the information about Muraski for later- he’d suspected she was dead, based on Chiyoh’s commitment to Hannibal’s interests, but now he wonders if she’d died of natural causes. He’d always assumed any deaths near Hannibal were orchestrated by him; perhaps Murasaki was the second family member he couldn’t save?

Will gulps, watching Hannibal pull out the steeper with precision. 

“Abigail saw you. She saw you way before me.” 

Hannibal’s smile is a fragile thing. If Will didn’t know better, he’d think his eyes were damp. 

“How funny of you to mention her now. What I would like to do with you during our hour is something I did with her the very first time she came to my home.” 

Will’s heart flops around like a dead fish.

“What is it?” 

Hannibal sets the tea down in front of Will; it’s mostly clear, with a slight ochre tinge. 

“Psilocybin tea. I’d like for you to hallucinate in a controlled environment. I think it may be cathartic for you, and furthermore, I think it would give us some answers about what you saw earlier.” 

Will feels real fear at the thought of being out of control. He remembers how terrifying it was to awaken in unfamiliar places or to drift into an altered reality mid-conversation. At the same time, a sick part of him misses Abigail and hopes that the psychedelics might help him see her again. And he really would like to know what the fuck happened with the beach. 

“So you think I hallucinated earlier?” 

Hannibal gives him that fragile smile and a small nod. 

“I do. And, as we discussed after your hallucination the other day, I think that these visions contain messages from your subconscious related to your conflicted sexual identity.” 

“What if this is the last straw? What if the holes in the floor of my mind are uncovered? What if I don’t come back from the trip?” 

Hannibal licks his lips. 

“You worry too much, Will. Let go.” 

Will downs the cup in one quick motion, and, once empty, looks at Hannibal before releasing it to shatter against the floor. 

“Oops.” 

Hannibal’s grin is beatific. 

“Oh, and Will? Before your trip starts in earnest...” 

“Yes?” 

“Chiyoh will be coming to stay for a few days.” 

“Oh, really? Want me to crash on the couch? I don’t mind.” 

“Thank you, Will, but no. That won’t be necessary. She can sleep with me.” 

When Will looks up, it’s not Hannibal sitting across from him; it’s the stag man. His fist aches for the rock.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> come yell at me on my new fannibal twitter: https://twitter.com/raven_stag1
> 
> (This chapter was brought to you by NFWMB by Hozier- seriously, I think I listened to that song like 30 times while writing this: https://youtu.be/We-mIWLT5DI .)


	13. Chapter 13

When he wakes hours later, he doesn’t remember much of the trip. There are fragments of it; he remembers describing the stag man to Hannibal and hearing about something called a Wendigo. He has the distinct memory of looking down at his hand to realize it was covered in mold. Remembers Hannibal giving him a pencil and paper and asking him to draw the stag, and how the pencil had felt like rubber in his hand. 

It’s early in the morning, based on the silvery light bathing his bedroom. There’s a glass of water on his bedside table, along with a bottle of aspirin. Grateful for Hannibal’s foresight, he swallows the pills dry and downs half the glass in one go. There’s a pulsing headache throbbing against his ocular nerves and his nauseous mouth is involuntarily welling with bile and saliva. If he’d known that the tea would make him feel this shitty, he wouldn’t have agreed to the use of psychedelics.

“Bastard,” Will mutters into his pillow, burrowing into the comfort of his bed. 

He stumbles back into sleep and dreams of the stag. In his dream, Will is treading water, getting slapped around by the frigid Atlantic. His whole body is numb from the cold; he can barely feel his legs and his teeth are chattering. He’s too far out to see the shore, and no matter where he turns he is met by riotous waves. It’s a new moon- too dark to see more than a few feet in front of him, and he begins to panic. As he sucks in a heaving gasp, a surprisingly hot wave of sea spray bursts across the back of his neck. 

He turns, afraid of whatever fresh hell his brain has conjured, to realize it isn’t spray at all- it’s the steaming breath of the stag. It floats through the water like Charon’s demented barge, seemingly dead if not for its slow blinks and scalding breaths. Will reaches out to touch the stag, seeing his face shining in the glistening black orbs of its eyes, and expects it to disappear. Instead, it allows him to wrap his arms around its neck; its feathers are much like a duck’s- slightly greasy so that the water slides off of its coat. He presses his forehead against the stag’s head, desperate for its heat to warm his frigid skin. 

“Will?” 

Will jerks back to reality with a start and realizes that he’s no longer in his bedroom. He’s standing in front of Hannibal’s bed, reaching one hand out toward his prone form. It comes as such a shock that he stumbles backward, sucking air back into his lungs in gasping moans. The headache returns and the room spins, black dots as small as needle heads swarm his vision and he feels himself pitch sideways before being grasped by a strong arm. 

He’s maneuvered onto the bed, still warm from where Hannibal was sleeping and pushed back onto the pillows. Normally, he would protest at being manhandled, but he’s still so disoriented that it’s all he can do to keep his jaw clenched to prevent any of the rising bile from spilling out and marring Hannibal’s pristine linens. 

“Will, it’s alright, you’re safe.” 

The irony of that statement, delivered with such sincerity, causes Will to bark out a sickly little laugh that turns into an embarrassingly hurt groan when the movement causes his head to resume throbbing. 

“I’ll be right back, I just need to grab my medical kit,” Hannibal says, smoothing some of Will’s hair back from his forehead in a surprisingly gentle gesture. 

“And a bucket,” Will mumbles, turning his head into Hannibal’s pillow and taking a deep breath of the lingering smell of his shampoo. 

Will stews in his own misery for a few moments before Hannibal returns with his medical bag, the trashcan from the bathroom, and a glass of water. 

“Can you sit up?” 

Will nods weakly and sits up with a soft groan. Hannibal tuts and grabs an extra pillow to help prop him up, much to Will’s chagrin. 

“There’s no need for you to play nursemaid. It’s just a headache, I’ll be fine,” he growls. 

Hannibal places a cool hand on his forehead and slips a thermometer under his tongue. 

“I quite like being your “nursemaid;” there is so much beauty in your suffering.” 

Will would laugh if he could, but the thermometer hinders his range of motion. 

They spend the next several moments in amicable silence while Hannibal pokes and prods Will and Will generally tries to stop himself from throwing up. After checking his lymph nodes and tonsils, Hannibal sits back. 

“Well? Will I die?” 

“Certainly, but not of a migraine. I believe you are having an adverse reaction to the psychedelics, combined with dehydration. You may have had a flashback. I would advise that you remain in bed- I’ll be back in a moment with an electrolyte drink for you.” 

Will sighs and attempts to get up, only to get swarmed again by the black dots and the distinct urge to empty the contents of his stomach. Hannibal easily pushes him back down onto the bed and brushes his hair out of his eyes, running his thumb over the scar that mars his hairline. 

“Stay put, Will. You’re in no state to move.” 

“I’m gonna sweat all over your bed.” 

“My bed isn’t averse to the idea,” Hannibal says, winking and leaving Will to lie there with his mouth open. 

_____________________________________________________________________________ 

Several hours pass before Will hears the distinct sound of tires crunching up the drive. He jolts, but Hannibal quickly rises from his place at the chair in the corner and quiets him. 

“It’s Chiyoh. Remember that she’ll be staying here for a few days?” 

Shit. Now he does. 

“Just what I need,” he grumbles under his breath. 

Hannibal’s forehead moves upward in surprise. 

“She saved your life, you know.” 

Will gives him a stare that communicates he still hasn’t forgiven her for throwing him off a train, or for shooting his already-fucked shoulder. 

“I’ll go down to greet her; I’ll be back in a bit to check on you. Just shout if you need anything.” 

Will nods, collapsing back into Hannibal’s luxurious nest with a huff. 

He hears the soft creak of the screen on the front door, and then hears Hannibal call out in what he assumes must be Japanese. The slam of a car door, followed by the even tones of her soft voice. Then, they’re in the kitchen, just a stone’s throw away from the bedroom. There’s a beat of silence, followed by a soft sigh. Then, he hears her ask, 

“Where is Will?”

“Unfortunately, he’s got a migraine. He’s currently in the room we’ll be sharing; feel free to drop off your bag and say hello- I’m sure he’s eager to speak with you.” 

Will furrows his brow at the thought, mostly because, much as he’s loath to admit it, he really does want to talk to Chiyoh. She’s the closest thing to an impartial observer of Hannibal’s true nature, which makes her insights fascinating. 

She comes in without knocking, her rifle case strapped across her back and a large duffel bag hung in the crook of her arm. She looks different from when he last saw her- granted, he was mostly unconscious and stoned out of his mind on morphine. She’s cut her hair and bleached it, and he can see the edge of a tattoo underneath her collar. 

“New look?” He asks. 

She just keeps on staring, her face a studied mimic of Hannibal’s human veil. She sets the bag on the bench at the base of the bed but doesn’t remove the rifle. 

“Why are you here?” She asks, her accent slightly thicker than he remembers it. 

He laughs, somewhat stunned by the bluntness of her question. 

“Shouldn’t I be asking you the same question? I thought you’d cut your ties with Hannibal.” 

Her glacial mask remains fixed firmly in place. An awkward silence ensues, and Will wonders what Hannibal is thinking out in the kitchen. 

“I meant why are you here?” She clarifies after the silence is stretched too thin, gesturing towards Hannibal’s bed with an elegant hand. 

Will blushes and immediately tries to shoot up, only for everything to spin again and to collapse back with a defeated sigh. 

“Chiyoh, leave him be. Come help me with dinner,” Hannibal calls, and Will accepts the unusual sign of his mercy for the gift that it is. 

She turns to go, finally casting off her rifle case and leaning it against the wall by the door. Will presses his fingers into the corners of his eyes. 

“Hey, um. Thank you.” 

She turns, leveling him with the icepicks of her pupils. Arches a brow. 

“For saving us,” he spits out, resentful that she forced him to clarify. 

She stalks forward, as silent as Hannibal, and rests one of her slender hands atop his own. It’s so small, so delicate- and it startles Will to realize that she’s the first woman to touch him in months. 

“Don’t thank me. I saved you for him.” 

She pats his hand in the same way that Will would try to calm a stray and walks out. 

________________________________________________________________________ 

It’s a novel experience for Will to hear Hannibal’s voice from afar; even stranger still to know that it’s not directed at him. He can hear the two of them, chatting away in a variety of languages; he catches Japanese, French, and what must be Hannibal’s native Lithuanian. There are chopping sounds, the running of the faucet, the closing of drawers and cabinet doors. He can feel the hairs on the back of his neck bristle at the cozy domesticity of it all- it’s clear that they’ve fallen back into a well-established pattern. 

The migraine is starting to recede, thank God, and so he decides to join them in the kitchen. When he stumbles out, bleary-eyed and sweaty, he finds Hannibal stood behind Chiyoh, one arm bracketing her body against the counter while the other holds up what appears to be a potato under her nose. Hannibal flicks a cursory glance at Will and tosses a wink his way before he turns his attention back to her. 

Will puts his hands in his pockets to hide the fact that they’re curling into fists. 

“Yuca?” Chiyoh guesses, keeping her eyes closed and taking another deep inhale of the sliced root. 

Hannibal chuckles before moving away, placing the vegetable on the cutting board and stirring something simmering on the stove. 

“Very close. Cassava. One of my favorite sub-tropical vegetables, for the chef must be aware of how to prepare it properly or risk poisoning his guests with residual cyanide. Such an innocuous little tuber, and yet it packs quite a punch,” Hannibal punctuates the word “punch” with a dramatic sprinkle of salt into the simmering pot. 

Will glowers at Chiyoh’s back and refuses to acknowledge her presence. She doesn’t turn around, just continues to calmly stand there and watch Hannibal. 

“Will, I take it you are feeling well enough to dice?” 

Will strides forward with more confidence and coordination than he really feels he has. He accidentally bumps Chiyoh with his shoulder as he takes up his station at the cutting board. She still doesn’t react. 

“How do I dice this?” He asks, somewhat self-consciously. He’s not used to cooking for an audience. 

Hannibal demonstrates, first slicing the thick brown skin of the vegetable in a long elegant peel before instructing Will to make ¼ inch cuts horizontally and then vertically. He places four other washed cassavas nearby and goes back to stirring his soup. Chiyoh sits at the counter and shucks corn. The soft ripping of the husks in her nimble fingers reminds Will of the first time he saw her- plucking feathers. It feels like a lifetime ago. 

They settle into their work amicably, and Will can’t help but be fascinated by the way Hannibal and Chiyoh interact. 

“Did you visit her shrine?” Hannibal asks. 

“Yes, of course. I placed an Ikebana of Kinmokusei blossoms and Sakurasou, and burned incense in your honor.” 

Hannibal nods, and Will suspects that they are discussing Lady Murasaki’s final resting place, wherever it may be. 

“You would be safer in Japan, Hannibal. Further from America and among friends. It would be easier to protect you there.” 

“Japan also extradites its prisoners to the U.S.,” Will cuts in, trying to curb the acid from his voice and mostly failing. It’s not her fault he’s so unsettled by her. 

Chiyoh looks at him for the first time since the bedroom. If he weren’t used to Hannibal’s glacial stares, perhaps it would send a chill down his spine. Instead, he meets her gaze, determined to make her back down. 

Hannibal looks between them with a gleeful little grin, clearly enjoying their tension. 

“Unfortunately, Will is correct. Our travel is going to be somewhat limited to countries with lenient extradition laws- not that we’ll get caught. Not to mention, Uncle Jack is well aware of my connections in Japan- I’m sure it’s one of the places he is likely to look for the foreseeable future.” 

Chiyoh nods, accepting this, and goes back to shucking her corn. 

“Has Jack reached out to you at all?” Will asks, a new fear clenching around his heart. 

“Once.” 

Will’s breathing picks up. 

“What did he want to know?” 

Hannibal continues seasoning as if nothing’s wrong, collecting Will’s diced cassava and depositing it in the pot with steady hands. This must have been what they were talking about while Will was in the bedroom. 

“The obvious.”

Will doesn’t realize he’s still holding the knife until his hand clenches around the handle. 

“Did he ask about me?” 

“He asked if we had ever been romantically involved. I think he believes you are dead and was trying to determine the depth of your feelings for Hannibal.” 

“What did you tell him?” 

“What I told you. That you are Nakama.” 

Will lets go of the knife and pins Hannibal with a sharp glare. His smug pleasure is written all over his face, the bastard. 

Will scrubs a hand over his face, breathing out harshly. It’s all too much- Jack examining his sexual past, Chiyoh standing in the kitchen with her obvious affection for Hannibal, Hannibal existing in the center of everything like a self-righteous sun in a fucked up solar system. 

“I need some air,” he growls, stalking out of the kitchen’s open french doors to the comfort of the beach. 

“Dinner will be ready in half an hour,” Hannibal calls after him. 

Will spends a few miserable moments alone, sitting in the sand and letting the sea breeze lash his skin. Idly, he plays with a piece of driftwood and imagines throwing it for a dog. God, he misses them. Soon, his thoughts turn to the conversation in the kitchen. He can just imagine Hannibal politely enquiring about his amorous past with Chiyoh- wanting to know about the kiss and the night spent in contemplative silence on the train. 

So far, Will has been able to keep his sexual history shrouded from Hannibal’s scrutiny, but it seems that that won’t hold for much longer. Not that it’s much of a history. Still, he resents that Chiyoh is far more loyal to Hannibal than him and that their private moment won’t remain between them. 

Not that it was even a good kiss; he’d been able to sense her disinterest, clinical and calm, but his loneliness had propelled him forward. At that point, he was so starved for anything that reminded him of Hannibal he would’ve kissed the ground he walked on. 

He thinks about what she said about “means of influence other than violence.” She was right- violence is all he knows. But he’s been trying his hand at seduction. He can’t tell if it’s working, largely because he’s too unstable to keep the rouse up for too long, and also because he has the suspicion that Hannibal can practically read his thoughts now. 

It’s getting late. He tosses the driftwood into the sea and watches as it floats away. He follows it until it disappears into the night, and turns back to the house. There’s a figure picking its way down, and he immediately tenses when he realizes its Chiyoh. 

He strides up to her, meeting her halfway. 

“Sent to check on me?” 

She nods but doesn’t move. 

“Well? Let’s go in; he’ll come out in a minute and start pestering us if we’re not there to coo over his dinner.” 

She laughs- a soft, fragile thing. It frightens him. 

“You won’t escape him, you know. He is a Yokai- an apparition. Once he has tasted your trust, he will glut himself on it.” 

Will just stares at her, this hardened shell of a woman. 

“Why did you stay? Cold and alone for all those years.” 

Her eyes glint in the moonlight. 

“Hannibal molded me as a sculptor with his clay- I was shaped and formed to be his, from the beginning. Lady Murasaki didn’t need an attendant; she needed to provide him with a distraction. A surrogate sister. He is all the family I have left.” 

Will shifts his feet in the cool sand, overwhelmed with a sickening surge of empathy. He can feel the love radiating from her as if it was steam. 

“How can you love him? After what he did to you?” 

She steps forward, graceful, and lithe in her youth. Will remembers his instant fascination with her and is surprised that he no longer finds her attractive. She touches his lip, split from the fall. For a moment, Will is terrified that she’ll try to kiss him. 

“How can you?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow- over 200 kudos! I never imagined this fic would gain the following it has; thank you so much for reading and leaving your feedback. It really fuels my writing! If the slow burn is killing you, check out the first part of my PwP one-shot "Tumescent."


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay! Health stuff slowed my writing a little, but hopefully, this update will put me back on track. Trying to post weekly! Check my Twitter (@raven_stag1) for fic updates :)

It’s strange, after months in isolation, to have a dinner guest. They eat at the kitchen table, even though Will knows it must be driving Hannibal crazy that the house doesn’t have a dining room. Still, a few tealights are twinkling between their wine glasses, and Hannibal has changed out of his usual linen slacks and button-down into a sky-blue linen suit, complete with a silk pocket square and tan leather slip-ons. 

In contrast, Will and Chiyoh look unbearably casual. 

Hannibal announces the meal with as much zeal as he had at his Baltimore dinner parties. It occurs to Will that this is the first time he’s cooked for a guest in years. 

“Kat Kat Manioc- a Mauritian cassava stew garnished with cumin-spiced corn and portobello mushrooms.” 

As he sets the dishes down, Will’s mouth floods with saliva. The smell of the stew is spicy and herbaceous, and a glance at Chiyoh tells him that she is no less affected. 

Peering into the bowl, Will is quick to note the absence of meat. Hannibal isn’t one to skimp on his proteins. 

“Are you a vegetarian now?” Will asks. 

Chiyoh nods, somewhat sheepishly, and avoids Hannibal’s gaze. 

“Pescatarian,” she corrects, raising a large spoonful of the steaming dish to her lips. She doesn’t blow on it before placing it in her mouth. 

Will cuts a glance to Hannibal, curious if he has taken offense. His face is placid, and mirth dances in his eyes—Will wonders which of them has ignited it. 

Their conversation is somewhat stilted, mostly because Chiyoh and Will are still navigating the tangled web of their past. She defers to Hannibal for most things, which greatly annoys Will. 

“Did you bring the files I asked for?” Hannibal enquires towards the end of the meal. 

Chiyoh sets her spoon down delicately and sits up straighter in her chair.

“Of course. I have physical and digital copies.” 

Hannibal hums, satisfied. 

“We will probably need to move on from this location within a month or so.” 

Will feels a sharp tug as if someone has tied a knot around his heart and jerked it. It puzzles him, to feel attached to this place. 

“Where will we go next?” He asks, trying to temper the resentment in his voice. He knows that Hannibal is flexing his dominance, preening for Will like a cat with a dead bird. 

Chiyoh rises, and Will notes a faint glimmer of panic behind the veneer of her face. Her chair makes a high-pitched scraping noise as the backs of her knees push it against the floor. 

“Excuse me. It’s been a long day, and I am very tired.” 

She carries her bowl to the sink, and Will wonders why she timed her exit for that particular course of discussion. It seems she doesn’t want to know where they will go next. Interesting. 

Hannibal follows, carrying the two remaining bowls. Will watches Chiyoh startle when she feels the hot press of his body behind her. Watches her smooth the fear in her face like a Zamboni over the scarred remains of an ice rink. Seethes when Hannibal bends down to whisper something in her ear, a heavy hand on her waist, lips brushing against the delicate cartilage. 

He notes how her body, usually so stiff, bends to his whimsy. What had she said last night on the beach? Like clay. Will wonders what material he is made out of. Marble, perhaps. Something that can only be eroded, never bent. Something only transformed through the violent strike of the chisel. 

“Thank you for dinner, Hannibal. Goodnight.” 

“Of course. The bathroom is the door across from the bedroom- there are fresh towels on the warming rack, and there are extra toiletries in the center drawer of the bureau.” 

He leans back in the chair, swallowing his jealousy and projecting amusement. Watches Chiyoh abandon her dish and slide out of the room on her long, graceful legs. The twisted tool of his empathy has embedded her emotions in the environment- her want, her terror, her longing.

She doesn’t look at Will as she leaves. 

He takes a deep breath, trying to flush her out of his system. He has enough of his own yearning and fear to work through. 

“Care to dry?” Hannibal calls over his shoulder. 

“Sure,” Will says, draining the dregs of his wine for courage before collecting their glasses and bringing them to the sink. 

“Why did she leave?” He asks, taking satisfaction in the momentary pause of Hannibal’s scrubbing hands. Hannibal had thought he’d ask about the whisper. 

“She’s ready to move on,” Hannibal says, somewhat forlornly. 

Will nods, accepting a warm bowl from Hannibal. Rubs the cloth against it, avoiding his mangled reflection in the glazed clay. 

“I used to do this for Molly, too,” Will says, more to himself than to Hannibal. 

“Did you cook? Or did she? You said she was talented in the kitchen.” 

Will smiles, remembering the taste of her chili and cornbread. 

“Usually, she did. But, on the nights she worked doubles, and on the weekends, I’d give her a break.” 

Hannibal’s hands have stopped lathering the second dish. His whole body tenses for a moment, as if he’s transcribing that information into a vast tome of "Will Graham's Life." 

“What was your specialty?” 

“In the summer I liked to grill. Usually, I’d make some roasted fish, wrapped in parchment paper with garlic and lemon. Roast up some potatoes and some veggies for the side, whatever was in season. Sometimes I’d make spaghetti and meatballs if Wally asked for it.” 

Hannibal continues scrubbing, but he leans slightly into Will. 

“I’d like for you to cook for me, sometime,” he muses, almost as if he himself is surprised by the notion. 

Will flushes, somewhat embarrassed by the thought. 

“Alright. Next fish I catch.” 

They finish up amicably, chatting idly. Enjoying the warmth of one another. For the first time in a while, when Will goes to bed that night, he doesn’t dream.  
_________________________________________________________________________

Ironically, Chiyoh’s arrival has brought an unusual domestic energy to the cottage. Before, the wind-worn home had been full of tense silences and sporadic conversations. Now, in the peace of the morning, the house feels almost cozy. 

Will is sitting on the patio, sipping a coffee, and closing his eyes against the warmth of the sun. He feels no tense anticipation for Hannibal’s inevitable approach, nor does he find himself straining to interpret the various noises coming from the house. For the first time in a while, he feels confident that his plan is working. 

Someone settles into the wrought-iron chair across from him and sets down what must be a breakfast plate onto the mosaic-tiled table between them. He doesn’t need to open his eyes to know that it’s Hannibal. He would know him anywhere, even blind. 

“Sleep well?” He asks, turning his face further toward the sun. 

“Well enough. I don’t require much sleep, but it was certainly more restful than the night before last.” 

Will opens his eyes at that little dig and quirks a brow. 

“I’m not going to apologize. We both know that you knew the side effects of that tea and decided to weather them.” 

Hannibal studies his face, a faint smile tugging at his lips. 

“Where’s Chiyoh?” Will asks, surprised that she hasn’t appeared. 

“Still in bed, I believe. She had a long night.” 

Will feels the icy clench of jealousy curdle the coffee in his stomach. 

He spreads his thighs, scooches back farther in the chair, and meets Hannibal’s gaze. He can sense the bait and decides not to nibble. Hannibal wouldn’t betray his trust so quickly, not when he has so much to lose. 

“Good for her,” he says, winking, while he steals a piece of Hannibal’s toast from the breakfast plate. He does his very best to push down the rising swell of rage. It won’t serve his purposes here. 

Hannibal pins him with a glare that communicates just how rude he finds the gesture, and Will rolls his eyes fondly. 

“How long will she be staying?” He asks, trying to sound casual. 

“Probably another day or two. She’s still procuring a few things we need. Are you eager to see her go?” 

Will considers.

“Are you going to kill her?” 

Hannibal’s face remains passive, but his eyes glint with interest. 

“To what end?” 

Will scoffs, closing his eyes and turning his face back to the sun, lest Hannibal read his anxiety. 

“When have you ever needed a motive? Your brand of possession doesn’t do well with letting things go.” 

“Chiyoh is very dear to me,” Hannibal concedes. 

“So are most of the people on your list: Alana, Bedelia, Jack… your precious playthings.” 

Will inhales, drawing the healing ions of the salt air deep into his lungs, hopeful that they will seal the cracks inside. That the sea will cage the old Will Graham, seal him up deep inside, and never let him out again. 

“You don’t count yourself on my list anymore. What’s changed?” 

Will sighs, resigned to his fate. Widens his legs, stretches with his hands above his head and winces when his shoulder twinges. Delights in the hungry kiss of Hannibal’s gaze along the contours of his body. Opens his eyes and stares at the circling shadows of the gulls. 

“I have,” he says, so softly that it’s mostly lost among the whisper of the waves. 

Hannibal’s hand, thick and finely-veined, frames the width of his jaw. Pulls Will’s face away from the sky and towards him. Like Icharus to the sun. Hannibal doesn’t remove his hand, just holds Will’s skull in his powerful grasp. Ghosts a thumb along the ridge of Will’s cheekbone. 

“You are,” Hannibal corrects. The longing in his amber gaze is so fierce that it makes Will’s breath catch. 

Slowly, he raises his own hand and lays it over Hannibal’s. Holds onto the hand holding him. Squeezes it, once, before freeing himself from its grip. 

He crosses his arms across his chest, swallowing his anticipation for the conversation to come with the gesture. He can’t betray how deeply the well of his feelings runs. Not yet. 

“I want to ask something of you,’ He starts, leaning his crossed arms onto the table. Looking up at Hannibal through his lashes, hoping to distract him. 

Hannibal mirrors his position, and their elbows kiss around the edges of the forgotten breakfast plate. 

“Which role am I to play? Mephistopheles or Faust? You’ve always loved to imagine I am the devil, Will.” 

Will forges ahead, uninterested in Goethe, or his stories of bargaining. 

“Let her go.” 

There’s a flash of something behind Hannibal’s calm veil. Will thinks it might be anger. Could be curiosity. Is probably both. 

“I was planning on it,” Hannibal says. 

Will rolls his eyes. 

“I mean in every way. Let this be her last time.” 

Manufactured hurt flashes across Hannibal’s face. 

“Will. Chiyoh and I have already agreed that this is her “last time.” Perhaps you are projecting your own feelings onto her situation?” 

Will jiggles his foot under the table. Time to add a worm to the hook. 

“Please,” he begs. The emotion coating the word is entirely genuine. 

Hannibal savors it like an ortolan- an endangered, fragile morsel. 

“Where has this compassion come from, Will? Just a day ago, you were sulking in anticipation of her arrival.” 

“Why does it matter? Will you do this for me?” 

Hannibal inches forward, causing the ceramic bottom of the plate to scrape unpleasantly against the tiles of the table. 

“Chiyoh is a very capable woman. I trust her to judge for herself when she is at her limit. I thought you’d left your white-knighting days behind you, Will. Perhaps you are mistaking your own feelings for hers. You are not my prisoner, and neither is she." 

Will scoffs. 

“I know who I am! And we both know that left to her own devices, Chiyoh will be pulled back to you as surely as a moth to a flame. You’ve ensured that she has no identity separate from your own.” 

Hannibal’s hands twitch. Will swallows, uncomfortable by his inability to detect where the anger is directed. 

“ The same could be said about you. You’re asking me to forsake my family.” 

“You’ve asked me to forsake mine.” 

Cruelty glistens, the veil removed. 

“And yet you haven’t.” 

Will sighs, exasperated by the yoke of Hannibal’s possessiveness. 

“If you do this for me, I will.” 

Hannibal furrows his brow, a unique expression for him. Will is breathing heavily and tries to still the movement of his chest. The intensity of the moment has crept up on him- it was stupid for him to lower his defenses. 

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep,” Hannibal warns, his eyes catching the sun. 

“I’m not. I want you to let Chiyoh go- let her become herself, without your influence. Don't interfere with Molly and Walter, either. And, in return, I promise you I’ll stay. For good.” 

Hannibal inches closer, leaning his weight into his elbows. It almost seems as though he’s trying to climb into Will’s skin. 

“Tell me, Will. Was Jack Crawford’s curiosity about your past with Chiyoh unfounded? Is she another of your strays? Like Alana, who repulsed herself with her fascination with you? Or your sad little wife? Looking for a ready-made stand-in father for her son? Margot, scarred, and uninterested?” 

Will’s hand reaches out, cobra-fast, to curl around the base of Hannibal’s throat. His slender neck fits in the width of his hand. Hannibal’s face remains unchanged, except for the strain of the veins in his forehead and the slight bulge of his eyes. He can feel the steady pulse of Hannibal’s blood in his carotid, thumping away under his palm. 

He can’t tell if Hannibal is wincing or grinning. 

Will’s voice is deadly calm. 

“This is the difference between Chiyoh and I. Leave her be.” 

Hannibal’s eyes squint against the sun. 

“You could do it now, Will. We’ve always been problem-free, you and I. Solve your problem,” Hannibal wheezes. 

Will can’t tell if it’s the heat of the sun or the steaming breath of the stag warming the back of his neck. 

He tightens his hand, satisfied by the desperate rasp it elicits. Brings their faces level, foreheads kissing. Eyelashes embracing. 

“Promise me,” he demands. 

If it weren’t for the movement of Hannibal’s lips forming the words “I promise,” against his own, Will wouldn’t have known he’d responded. 

He releases Hannibal and steps away, flexing his hand. Helps himself to the last of Hannibal’s toast and ignores Hannibal’s reverent whisper of the word “beautiful.” Will strides back into the house, limping slightly because of the ache in his balls, to find Chiyoh.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay! Work is really heating up, and because of that, I think I'll probably need to update this fic on a bi-weekly schedule.

Will finds Chiyoh in his bedroom. She’s sitting on the edge of his bed, running her fingers over the coverlet like the strings of a harp. Waiting for him, evidently. He flops down next to her gracelessly, the adrenaline still pumping through him. His hands are shaking. She doesn’t comment on his obvious arousal. 

“Snooping on me?” He asks, acknowledging her presence in the room. 

She hums noncommittally. 

“Find anything interesting?” 

Chiyoh turns to look down at him, fixing him to the spot with her ethereal glare. The severity of her short, bleached hair heightens the hard angles of her face. She looks around, taking stock of the chestnut bureau, white curtains, soft linens. 

“I don’t see you in this room. Do you really sleep here?” 

Will creases his brows. 

“Not like you know me well.”

She doesn’t respond, just turns her head back to him. The silence is oppressive. 

“I’m not sleeping with him,” Will says. 

Her eyebrows shoot up. She didn’t expect that answer. 

Will sits up. The shaking has stopped, and he’s aware of how little time they have. She’ll need to leave tonight, once she’s gotten what Hannibal needs. 

“Why does that surprise you?” 

Calm drops over her face like a curtain unrolling from her temples. She stands up. 

“I’m going into the city today,” she evades, looking around the room. 

Will nods, swallowing. He can feel the flush in his face- of course she thought they were sleeping together- he’d just come storming up to his room after breakfast with Hannibal sporting a raging boner. She’d walked in on him lounging in Hannibal’s bed the day before. 

“Do you need me to get you anything?” Chiyoh asks. 

Will is seized by a desperate need to leave. To put distance between the little cottage and the ocean. To slip into someone else’s life, even briefly. 

“I’ll come with you. Let me get ready and we can leave in fifteen,” he replies firmly, not giving her room to turn him down. 

She clenches her jaw. 

“Hannibal won’t like it…” she starts. 

“-I don’t give a damn what he likes. As long as he doesn’t come with us he doesn’t get a say. Nobody’s looking for us here. You’ve altered your appearance and I’ll wear a disguise.” 

She nods, backing out of the doorway. 

“See you in fifteen,” he calls, walking into the en suite to wash his face. 

______________________________________

There’s a street performer in the Plaza de Libertad. From his spot on a nearby patio, Will’s already determined that they are a distraction for a small group of street children to rifle through tourist wallets. He watches the performer pound on his bongos, dazzling the crowds and luring them to dance along. Watches as the skinny kids, quick as minnows, dart in and out of the awed half-circle, pretending to play a game of tag. 

He’s been sitting there for about a half an hour, hiding in the back corner of the cafe under the shade of an umbrella, waiting for Chiyoh to exit the medical supply store. Sitting among the crowds feels wrong. Like a fox circling the henhouse. 

He imagines scooping up one of the tiny kids, holding their reedy wrist in his fist, and snapping their growth plate with the same ease as one of Winston’s sticks. Hearing the jingle of the kid’s change in their pockets as they writhed on the hot stones. Waiting for the angered street performer to storm over, infuriated at the loss of property, and plunging his butter knife into one of his eyes.

He comes back to himself when he sees her cut across the Plaza. Cropped blonde hair shining in the sun, heavy paper shopping bags in her hands, a cigarette between her lips. She keeps her head down, sunglasses-covered eyes focused on her path around the crowd. He wonders how many times she’s taken a black credit card and kept her head down. Wonders what she’ll do with the knowledge that she doesn’t ever have to do it again. 

Chiyoh joins him at the table, panting slightly in the heat. 

“Didn’t know you smoked,” he says, rising to help her rest her shopping bags against the warm bricks of the cafe. 

She takes another long drag of the cigarette, holding it delicately between her long fingers. 

“Not like you know me well,” she replies in her even voice, parroting his own words back to him with a glint in her eye. 

He laughs and snatches the cigarette from between her fingers. Puts it to his lips, feeling the familiar comfort of nicotine flood his veins. He flashes her a crooked grin and asks her what she wants to drink. 

She looks at her watch. 

“We should go to the next stop. I want to be back before dark.” 

Will nods. 

“I’ll get us some lunch to-go.” 

He walks into the cafe only to remember that he doesn’t have a wallet. Doesn’t even have keys. Nothing to put in his pockets but hope and fear. 

He walks back out, flushed. She’s sitting at the table, a black leather wallet extended in her hand. 

“Thanks,” he says, grabbing it and heading back inside. 

A few hours later and the Jeep is stuffed to the brim with assorted bags. Expensive Cuban cigars, IV drips, hunting knives, new clothes… it’s nearing sunset and they’re both exhausted. Most of the day was spent in silence, Chiyoh consulting her list, Will following behind. 

“Let’s get dinner here,” he says, desperate to avoid the cottage. 

Her look tells him she knows exactly why he’s suggesting it. 

“Fine. Let me call Hannibal and tell him,” she starts, fishing her burner out of the pocket of her slacks. 

“Don’t bother,” Will huffs, snatching it from her and pocketing it. 

They stare at each other with no shortage of animosity before she gives in. 

___________________

They wind up at a nice seafood place with roof deck seating and strong mojitos. Not that Will’s ever had a mojito, but he’s made the mistake of allowing Chiyoh to order for him. It turns out that Spanish is one of her many languages. 

“How many do you know?” 

She tips back an oyster, licking the brine from her lips. They glisten under the bistro lights. 

“Hannibal taught me the Romance languages, plus Lithuanian. I taught him Japanese. We learned English together.” 

Will nods, fascinated by what her childhood was like. 

“How old were you when he left?” 

Sadness flickers beneath her skin. 

“Thirteen. He didn’t want to leave me.” 

“Why not?” 

Chiyoh sips her drink, leaning back in her uncomfortable bistro chair. 

“How much do you know of Lady Murasaki?” 

Will picks up an oyster, cupped delicately in his wide palm. Remembers reading somewhere that freshly-shucked oysters are still alive when you swallow them. He wonders if it’s dead. He shoots it quickly, like kissing the ocean. Her eyes are on his lips. 

“Not much. I know she was married to Robertus. She had a flat in Paris and was known as quite a socialite. That Hannibal had an affair with her. And that she died, probably of natural causes.” 

Chiyoh nods. 

“She was not a kind woman. Life had hurt her- she was much younger than Robertus and didn’t consent to her marriage. The years with him in Lithuania hardened her. By the time I came to be her handmaiden, she was “Nigai”- bitter. She couldn’t have children and blamed her marriage for it.” 

With each word, Will builds a profile of her. He can picture her- regal, severely beautiful. A mirage of serenity with an undercurrent of rage. 

“Did she beat you?” He interrupts. 

Chiyoh laughs- a sound so soft that it sounds like the fluttering of wings. 

“Not while Hannibal was there. He wouldn’t permit it.” 

Will nods, sipping his drink and grimacing at the sting of the rum. 

“That’s why he didn’t want to leave you,” Will says. 

She crosses her arms on the table, looking down at them. 

“Yes. Like I told you, he saw me as more of a sister, then. But his feelings were complicated. He was very much in love with Lady Muraski, partially because of how cruel she could be.” 

“So why did he go?” 

She looks up at him, unsure. 

“You really don’t know?” 

Will bites down on the inside of his cheek. Now is not the time to show his irritation; this will be his last chance to understand Hannibal from the outside. 

“We were in the market, on Montmartre. Usually, the two of us shopped alone- she didn’t like to go out after Robertas died. But she came because Hannibal wanted her opinion on a painting for the sitting room. We were walking through the market when a seller called her a “bridé”- a “Chink.” Hannibal, just a teenager, became very angry. He confronted the seller in front of everyone and forced him to apologize to her.” 

Will can picture it- Hannibal, seventeen or eighteen years old, no soft lines on his face, slender and nimble, holding a hairy man by his shirt lapels, murder in his eyes. 

“Two days later, the seller’s head was mounted on a fencepost outside of the Sacre Coeur. His body was never found. Hannibal left for Florence a week later, after la police came to the flat.” 

Silence descends while Will’s imagination whisks him off to Paris. He pictures Hannibal, mouth firmly set, packing a trunk. Murasaki, hair unbound, berating him. 

Their entrees are brought, the empty shells of the oysters whisked away. Fish tacos for Will, Paella for Chiyoh. When he looks up from his reverie, he sees her staring at the sea. There’s resignation in the air around her. It’s like she’s still sitting alone in a palatial bedroom, listening to Hannibal leave her behind. 

“You should go tonight,” Will says, abruptly. 

She laughs sarcastically, nodding her head mechanically. Her eyes don’t leave the sea. 

“You know as well as I that Hannibal never leaves you.” 

Will reaches across the table, past their untouched food, and grabs one of her fine-boned hands in his own. 

“You’ve done your duty; by her and by him.” 

Although her face remains stoic, Will can feel her pulse pounding in the thin skin on the back of her hand. 

“I have no purpose, without him.” 

“You can make one. He forged your purpose as surely as you can make your own.” 

She pulls her hand back, rubbing it as though his touch burned her. 

“Sometimes, I think you’re him. The way you talk is different, but the words feel the same. Why do you want me gone?” 

Will feels the cracks inside him widen. Flashes her with a twisted smile. 

“How old were you when he fucked you?” 

“Who says he did?” 

“Means of influence other than violence.” 

“Then wouldn’t I have “fucked” him?” 

Will nods, tapping his foot against the deck. 

“Before he left for America. I was twenty. I wanted him to be my first.” 

Will watches her thumb rub its slow circle around her middle knuckle and mirrors her posture. 

“Was it good?” 

Her eyes flash with something sharp. There’s a glisten to the wide pores of her face- whether, from the alcohol, the heat, or the conversation, Will couldn’t say for sure.

“Is it ever good for women, the first time?” 

“I wouldn’t know.” 

She’s interested by that, he can tell. Her finger traces a bead of condensation as it slips down her glass. 

They eat in silence for a few moments, an unfamiliar tension clogging the air between them. Will is surprised when she breaks it. 

“He is like a beast, in bed. Like the cat who watches the bird in its gilded cage and tempts it to break its own neck against the bars.” 

Will leans across the gulf of the table, past their steaming plates, to cup her fine hands in his wide, scarred palms. 

“The cage door is open. Will you go?” 

Her smile is bitter. 

____________________________________________ 

There’s a soft neck in front of Will’s lips that he can’t help but nuzzle. His hand is in its familiar place around Molly’s waist, groin pressed against the seam of her ass. There’s a familiar ache in his cock, one he hasn’t felt for a while. He groans into the skin against his lips, the familiar pound of a hangover pulsing behind his eyes. He shivers, pressing closer to her. 

He feels her stir, a slight tremor to her limbs.

“Morning,” he whispers, his voice a horse rasp. 

Molly’s body goes stiff as a board at the sound of his voice. It’s at that moment, when his empathy fogs his brain with adrenaline and terror, that he remembers. 

“Oh, fuck.” 

“Yes,” Chiyoh responds, “Fuck.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The show’s timeline for Hannibal’s backstory makes it almost impossible for him to have had a meaningful relationship with Chiyoh… as far as I can tell, he was in his late 40’s when the show began, and Chiyoh in her early 30’s/ late 20's when she was first introduced. For the purposes of this fic, she’s slightly older, probably about Will’s age.
> 
> Let me know what you think in the comments below, or yell at me on Twitter: @raven_stag1


	16. Chapter 16

“You need to go,” Will sighs, pressing the flat of his hand deep into his eyes. 

He can barely stand to look at Chiyoh. She’s sitting up in bed, a blanket draped around her shoulders, making no attempt to cover her modesty. They’re in a hotel, thank god. Will doesn’t want to imagine the bloodbath he would’ve caused back at the cottage. And the longer they linger, the more likely Hannibal is to come looking for them. 

“Where?” She asks, her voice still raw from the night before. 

It lingers like the faint smell of tobacco in the room. He remembers pushing her down, face-first. Pretending she was someone else. Slipping inside her and wishing her shoulders were broader. Muffling her soft moans with a firm hand to the back of her head, mashing her face into the pillows. Picturing Hannibal, embracing his mindset. 

Imagining a younger, more virginal Chiyoh. Slamming into her tightness and relishing her pain, drinking her pleasure, recognizing his absolute control. Knowing that he would always be her first; he would be the lover that she compared all others to. Remembers how the same name tumbled from both of their lips when they came. 

“Did we use protection?’ Will asks, flushing as he relives how wet she’d been. 

“No,” she says, rising from the bed and beginning to gather her clothes from the floor. 

“Godammit,” Will mutters, averting his gaze while she covers her lithe body in shapeless cotton. 

“Okay, well, we’ve got to take care of that, first. I’m clean. Do they even sell Plan B here?” 

The look she gives him makes his hackles rise. 

“Hannibal will take care of it,” she says in that familiar inflectionless tone. 

Will just stares at her, his body stiff with disbelief. 

“Chiyoh. I’m so sorry. But you can’t go back,” he says, bracing for a fight. 

She’s dressed now, moving into the en suite to rinse her mouth under the tap and run damp fingers through her hair. She doesn’t respond. 

Grumbling, Will digs around the room for the detritus of his clothing, shrugging into his wrinkled trousers and shirt, burning with shame. 

“Listen, you still have his card, yeah? We’ll go to the nearest ATM and withdraw enough cash to get you started. I’ll go back to the cottage and talk him down. I told him I wouldn’t leave him and he knows I meant it.” 

She’s finished in the bathroom and is now standing in the frame of the door. The early morning light bleaches her, makes her look like a specter. 

“Don’t you ever get tired of being the hero?” 

“If anything, last night proved that I’ve never been anything close to a hero.” 

A mourning dove breaks the weight of his statement with a trilling coo. 

Chiyoh laughs, eyes on the floor. 

“He broke me long ago. He hasn’t cared for a long time, now. He is a different man than the boy I knew.” 

Will sits on the bed, frustrated by his inability to sway her. To save her. To reverse the past. 

“Chiyoh, you have to know he doesn’t want me to have anything in my life but him. I’m not trying to save you from the goodness of my heart but on behalf of my ability to forgive him. Whatever’s left of it.” 

She sits down next to him, pressed firmly against his side. Grasps his hand, her delicate bones jutting into the rough flesh of his palm. 

“There are means of influence other than violence,” she whispers and raises his knuckle to her lips. 

He closes his eyes against the implication and affection. Swallows heavily. 

“And who influenced whom?”

She kisses the knuckle, the quick press of her dry lips mimicking the panicked flutter of a bird’s wings against the bars. 

____________________________________ 

The drive home is silent. Will speeds almost the whole way, eager to get whatever will happen over with. He rethinks his plan. 

When they pull into the driveway, the house is shuttered. The downstairs curtains haven’t been pulled back, and there is no sign of life. As they walk up to the front door, Will’s body reacts much the way it did at the Hobbs residence. Will lowers his center of gravity, prowling forward with the hairs across his arms and belly standing on end. A wet shiver slides down his spine at the memory of blood on concrete and gunpowder-coated pancakes. 

He pauses before turning the knob of the door, takes a deep breath, and pushes in. Ignores the instinctual kick of his heart. 

The house is empty. No sign of breakfast, or of dinner from the night before. The Moka Pot is sitting on the stove, and when he presses the back of his hand to it, he realizes it’s cold. He turns to Chiyoh and finds her heading towards the bedroom. 

“Wait!” He whispers, hoping to be the first one to encounter Hannibal. Chiyoh ignores him and forges onward, pushing the slightly-ajar door wide open and pausing in the doorway. 

“He isn’t here,” she says. 

“What do you mean? The car’s here,” Will responds, padding behind her to confirm the news for himself. He winces when the circumstances push his front flush with her back. 

Sure enough, Hannibal’s bed is perfectly-made and empty. Chiyoh’s bag is still tucked neatly in the corner, as is her rifle case. 

Will’s gut lurches like there’s a hook in it. He turns from the vacant room, crossing the short distance to the French doors with purposeful strides. 

“I’m checking the beach. You should probably pack your things and get ready to leave. Perhaps he’s planned his absence to keep his promise.’ 

“Will,” her tone is coated in pity. 

He turns to face her, the grief quickly morphing into rage. He can sense what she’s about to suggest. 

“I don’t think he’s coming back,” she says. 

Will feels the anger pull against the tendons in his forearms, feels it splash steaming bile against the back of his palate. 

“Then you don’t know him at all,” he spits.   
_________________________________ 

Sure enough, Hannibal’s on the beach. Or rather, he’s in the ocean. 

Will sits on the salt-chafed stump of an old coconut tree and watches him bob in and out of the waves. Hannibal’s bronzed body glistens in the early sunlight, weaving between the crests of the waves like a Midean dolphin. 

In many ways, Will feels like he did when he was a kid and went to go pick his own switch. Both guilty and confrontational. Nervously, he looks back to the house, hoping Chiyoh heeds his advice and stays there. 

When he looks back to the waves, Hannibal is standing, waist-deep, a hand shading his eyes from the sun. Will feels his gaze like a pinch. What hurts worse is Hannibal’s abrupt turn away from the shore and graceful dive beneath the surf. 

Hannibal doesn’t come to the beach for another ten minutes or so, continuing with his exercises as though this were any other morning. But Will isn’t fooled. He saw the pristine bed, the cold coffee pot. He felt the anxiety coating the home like a coating of dust. 

When Hannibal emerges, Will can tell he’s exhausted. There’s a fine tremor to his calves, and he walks stiffly, trying to hide a slight limp. He has a hand curled protectively over his soft stomach, cupping his old wound. 

“Forget something?” Hannibal asks breezily. 

“Listen, don’t blame Chiyoh. It was my fault. I wouldn’t let her call.” 

Hannibal says nothing, just stands above him with an eerie calm. 

“I told you I wouldn’t leave and I haven’t. I came back, just like I always will.” 

Hannibal blinks down at him, his face more immovable than Will’s ever seen it. 

“I didn’t doubt that you would. Should I have?” 

Will doesn’t know what to say to that. He rises, uncomfortable with the vulnerability in the space between them. Too aware of how it would look to Chiyoh from the kitchen. 

“Will?” 

“Don’t take it out on her. She doesn’t deserve it. You don’t have a right to be angry! It was your fucking idea!” 

Hannibal licks his lips. Cocks his head slightly, like a dog hearing a far-off siren, preparing to howl. 

“Which one of my ideas involved disappearing for a night? With no contact or protocol?” 

“Don’t pretend you didn’t know exactly what would happen.”

Will crowds into his space, aware of the centimeters between their lips. 

“You left, against my wishes and advice,”

“And yet, you didn’t fucking look! Didn’t use the escape plan when we didn’t contact you. Why was that?” 

Hannibal’s lips twitch. His hair blows softly in the sea breeze, his whole posture softening. 

“What did last night reveal to you that I could not?” 

Will pulls at his curls in agitation, scraping a hand over the back of his neck. 

“That, even with your point of view, I will never be you.” 

Hannibal hums, nodding softly. 

“Is that a relief or a disappointment?” 

Will turns back to the house. Calls over his shoulder, “Listen, she’s packing now. I told her about our deal; she’s done. I’m assuming you have someone who can replace her?” 

Hannibal turns his face back towards the sea, his eyes darting back and forth across the horizon as though scanning for a ship. 

“I’d hoped she’d stay for dinner,” he says. But Will can hear the shiver of possessiveness curbing the disappointed tone. It warms him, from head to toe. 

He nods, turning back to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with Hannibal. 

“I can’t be around her, right now. And I don’t want to leave you alone with her.” 

Hannibal grins, eyes crinkling. 

“Probably for the best.” 

Will cuts his eyes over to him, somewhat confused by his admission. 

“I used to think the Ripper was a sadist. But, he’s not, is he?” 

Hannibal looks at him with dark interest and wide pupils. 

“Are you implying that sadists cannot delight in their own pain? Or in the reactive pain it causes their beloved?” 

Will swallows thickly, his Adam’s apple sinking like a lead lure. 

“Don’t call me that,” he mutters, shoving his hands in his pockets. 

Hannibal cups Will’s chin in his wide palm and brings their eyes level. His thumb strokes fondly across Will’s cheekbone, tracing it with the weight of a palm reader searching for meaning. His smile is a tiny, broken thing. 

“What should I call you, then?” He asks, his lips so close to Will’s that he can feel how the salt has chapped them. 

“Will. I’m just Will.” 

Hannibal’s tender thumb continues its pendulum-like path, his eyes glistening as blood does in the moonlight. 

“Will.” 

He breathes the name as though it’s oxygen or sandalwood perfume. Like Tartuffe Bianchi and Batard Montrachet. As though to sip his simple name through salt-chafed lips is to drink manna. 

And it’s the pain, oozing from Hannibal like a forgotten wound, coupled with the certainty that nobody will ever say his name as though it were God’s, that causes Will to close the gap between their lips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone!   
> So sorry for how long it took me to get this up. My new job is wonderful, but it doesn't leave me with much time to pursue my own writing. If you're still here, thank you for sticking with this story. I'd love to hear your thoughts!


End file.
